


if I fall asleep with my hands held tight

by elysiumwaits



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Arguing, Billy Hargrove Has PTSD, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Canonical Child Abuse, Choking, Developing Relationship, Domestic, Dyslexic Steve Harrington, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Hurt Steve Harrington, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Making Up, Mentions of alcoholism, Misunderstandings, Neil Hargrove is His Own Warning, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Post-Season/Series 03 Fix-It, Post-Shadow Monster | Mind Flayer Possessing Billy Hargrove, Self-Esteem Issues, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Steve Harrington Has PTSD, Underage Drinking, but in the heimlich way not the fun way, here's that happy ending!, mentions of drug addiction, that's all folks, two fucked up people trying to be less fucked up together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22504192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: Billy keeps sneaking in Steve's window as the months go on: a story in ten parts.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Minor Robin Buckley/Heather Holloway - Relationship, Robin Buckley & Billy Hargrove & Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington
Comments: 147
Kudos: 765





	1. if I hold my breath 'til I fall asleep

**Author's Note:**

> So that image that someone snagged of the lock on the outside of Billy's bedroom door has stuck with me for awhile. This is the product of that, and maybe also some emotional catharsis on my end. Also, when I was about 4000 words into this fic, someone reminded me that Steve technically graduated before season three, so this is officially a canon divergence fic where Steve repeats his senior year because I'm too lazy to rewrite parts of this. Thank you and goodnight.
> 
> Please don't take anything here about dyslexia as accurate, though I have tried to be as accurate as possible with internet research and how it would have been diagnosed in schools in the 80s. There is quite a bit of internalized self-esteem problems where Steve considers himself to be dumb, but I'm not quite sure how to warn for that. I did speak to a person with dyslexia and ran parts of this by them, so a lot of it is based on account and experience as well. I hope I got it at least kind of right!
> 
> Title from Briston Maroney's "Fool's Gold" which has been on repeat on my playlists for literal months at this point.
> 
> _"If I fall asleep with my hands held tight, they'd be there when I wake."_

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> September, 1985

It's not the first time that Billy's come through Steve's window long after it would be socially acceptable. Not that he's sure it's ever socially acceptable to climb through someone's window for a booty call, when there's a perfectly good front door available and your favorite booty call's parents are never home. Like, literally never. Steve' actually starting to think they've got a second, secret house somewhere. Hopefully they don't have a secret child somewhere, because they're not exactly great about parenting this one.

He wouldn't put it past his dad to have a secret wife and kid somewhere. If he does, though, Steve feels sorry for the kid.

Anyway, it's almost half past midnight when Billy climbs in through Steve's window on a Thursday night in early September, without any warning whatsoever. Usually, Steve gets a call from a payphone, or maybe a couple small rocks bouncing off the pane so that Billy can make sure that Steve's actually home and the window's unlocked before he does the whole tree-to-lattice thing to heave himself through Steve's second-story bedroom window. This time, the only warning Steve has is the sound of the window sliding up, and then the rustle of clothing against the wooden pane and the thump of Billy's boots on the floor.

Steve's already in bed, because it's almost half after midnight and they've got school the next day, bright and fuckin' early. Not that he's about to tell Billy to leave or anything. He might bitch a little, maybe use the relatively mild annoyance he feels to his advantage to get Billy to want to "make it up to him" or something like that. 

Except when he sits up and hits the lamp beside his bed, Billy looks surprised, freezing in the middle of taking his boots off across the room. Billy doesn't look like he's about to jump into Steve's bed and wake him up with a blowjob, he looks... Steve's not sure. Worried. Like Steve's about to tell him to leave. Vulnerable is a word that Steve's never even tried to apply to Billy Hargrove before, but right now...

"I, uh." Billy swallows, licks his lips. He looks away for a second, and when he looks back at Steve, he's grinning, but it doesn't sit right on his face, strikes Steve as a mask. It's made worse by the fact that Billy's got a split lip, blood drying at the corner of his mouth, and his clothes and hair are rumpled. Disheveled."I know it's late, but..."

"It's fine," Steve says when Billy trails off. "I wasn't asleep yet."

"Yeah, I can see that now." 

The words hang in the air, and Billy makes no move to pull his other boot off. In fact, Steve's pretty sure that Billy's debating putting the first boot back on. "You don't have to go," Steve says. 

There are shadows still, since the only light in the room is the lamp on the nightstand, and Billy turns his face back down to his boots. So Steve doesn't see his expression when he says, "Cool," but it still sounds _wrong._ Everything about this seems off somehow. Fragile in a way that Steve never expected when they started whatever this is. 

He kind of expects the other shoe to drop, but he ends up just watching as Billy drapes his denim jacket over the back of the chair. There's blood on the white t-shirt that Billy's wearing, swiped on the sleeve like Billy used it to clean his lip, and Steve frowns. Something here isn't quite adding up. Billy doesn't fight much anymore. Not after the Mindflayer, not after he confessed that he has nightmares now about almost killing Steve that night at the Byers'. 

"Take your shirt off," Steve says, and Billy's head jerks up so fast that Steve could swear he hears a crack.

Another beat of the strangely heavy atmosphere. Then Billy cracks another grin, and it looks just as _wrong_ as it did a minute ago. "Why, Steve Harrington, are you feeling _bossy_ tonight?" he jokes, fingers the hem of his shirt like he's trying to be coy.

And usually Billy is all sharp edges and jagged teeth, the kind that cuts clean and quick. Right now, though, he's more like broken glass - shattered too small to piece back together, the kind that cuts the skin and stays deep. And Steve's had suspicions, lately, because sometimes Billy shows up and he's got bruises that don't come from getting into fights, and Billy doesn't fight much anymore, anyway. Sometimes, Max sticks really close to Billy, watches him with something like concern while Billy panics when she's not in his sight and not at school. On those days, Billy's antsy, fingers shaking around his cigarettes and willingly sitting through whatever the kids are doing that Steve's gotten roped into, not talking shit. He always says, "Just havin' a bad day, pretty boy," when Steve asks if he's alright. Until lately, Steve had thought maybe it was nightmares or something because god knows they both have enough material for a new one every night now, and Steve _gets that._

Lately, though, Steve's been thinking about Neil Hargrove and Billy's bruises. And right now, he's kind of thinking that Billy was hoping that Steve was already asleep, that Billy could just crawl into bed with him without waking him up.

"No." Steve can't see from here but he's sure Billy's fingers are shaking where they're holding the hem of his shirt. "No, you got, uh. You got blood on the sleeve." 

"Oh," Billy says, and he continues to stand there, across the room from Steve in his bloody shirt and his jeans and his socks. 

And like, Billy's never stayed the night, not really. He's stayed _late_ , sure, stayed until the dawn was peeking through the window he was climbing out of in hues of gray, Steve barely coherent and too sex-stupid to figure out how to ask him to stay. But he's never slept next to Steve. Steve's never woken up to Billy's face on the pillow next to his. Which is a goddamn shame, honestly, because he looks good in Steve's bed. Steve has nice pillows and nice sheets and a queen-sized bed because his parents buy him things so they don't have to care about him, so they might as well go to good use. 

Steve covers his yawn as he throws the covers back, swings his legs out and stands. He walks over to the dresser and starts rummaging, shoots a glance at Billy, who's only just started to take his shirt off. He pulls out a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt that are just a little big on him, because Billy's about the same height but broad, built in a way that Steve isn't. 

When he turns and holds them out, Steve's honestly afraid that Billy's going to just... run. Disappear out the window and never come back. But he feels like maybe this is important, maybe this is how he can tell Billy that it's safe here, that Steve gets it. That Steve wants him for more than just booty calls through the window.

He's not going to ask Billy to explain, though. Half past midnight, quickly approaching one in the morning isn't the time for that, especially on a Thursday night when they've got to be at school the next morning. And like, Steve's never going to sit around and say he's the smartest person in any given room at any given time, because he's repeating his senior year and he can't fucking _read_ for god's sake, but there are things that he _does_ understand and parents fucking you up is one of them. He knows how much it hurts to have someone try and pry open your mouth to get the words you don't want to say yet out.

So instead of asking about Billy's dad, or about his bloody lip, or about the bruises that Steve can see starting to form on Billy's ribs, Steve holds out some clothes and says, "I'm really, _really_ tired tonight, and I will fall asleep on your dick if you try to fuck me. Can we just, like... sleep?"

Billy doesn't move for a moment, eyes on Steve. He licks his lip again, absently lingers on the split there, and Steve is honestly lying a little about his own stamina here even if he is tired, but he's pretty sure that sex isn't what Billy needs or even wants right now. Then, like divine intervention, another yawn erupts from Steve, and _that_ is what finally convinces Billy that Steve isn't about to rip the rug out from underneath him. 

He takes the clothes, turns his back to Steve to drop them on the desk. Steve fights hard to keep his mouth shut because there may be deep shadows from the lamp being the only thing on, but they don't hide the lines in Billy's back that look like... like shelving, like Billy was shoved back hard against something. He doesn't say anything, reminds himself that he doesn't need to say anything right now. It's almost one in the morning, and it wouldn't help at this moment. _This_ is what he can do to help. 

When Billy turns back around, he's dressed and kind of half grinning again. This time it looks like the grin, whatever of it is there, sits a little easier, is a little less forced. "I guess you do need your beauty sleep, huh?" he says. Steve rolls his eyes like he's supposed to, and doesn't back away when Billy pulls him in by the arms for a kiss. It's a gentle one, which are becoming more common between them as the days go on, but aren't common enough yet that Steve's used to them. He's man enough to admit he melts, just a little, kisses back with care so he doesn't make Billy's lip any worse. "If you set an alarm for early enough, I'll give you something to look forward to in the morning," Billy adds, and he sounds like himself now, cocky and assured, murmuring the words against Steve's mouth.

Steve breaks the kiss with another yawn. He doesn't protest when Billy starts walking him backwards to the bed, because Billy's smiling for real now, and also Steve is actually pretty tired now that he knows this isn't going to end in orgasms. "Or I leave the alarm like it is, and we sleep as late as we possibly can so I can make it to first-hour English and actually pass this year."

"Second time's the charm, baby," Billy says, just like he has every other time Steve's made a reference to his second year as a senior. 

Steve's given up on replying or following that line of conversation, because Billy gets weirdly tight whenever Steve calls himself stupid. Besides, Steve's distracted by the way that Billy's crawling into his bed, nestling under the covers like he's slept there every day of his life. There's something almost primal in what Steve is feeling right now, watching Billy make himself comfortable in Steve's space, wearing Steve's clothes. The feeling isn't sexual, really, but could be if Steve wanted to go that route. For now, it's just... protective. Possessive, maybe, like he's got any right to be. 

Then again, it is _Steve's_ window that Billy keeps crawling through.

"Are you gonna come to bed or just stare at me for a few hours?" Billy sounds tired too, words running together like he's already halfway-asleep. "I know I'm good-lookin', but I'm tired and you're tired, so. Come to bed, Stevie."

Steve could get used to hearing that, he realizes, and he's a little afraid of what that means. But Billy looks good in his bed, and Steve is tired, so he shoves it all aside for the moment and goes to bed.


	2. i don't know where I went wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> October, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that has to deal with Steve's dyslexia a lot! I'm nervous about it, to be honest.

September bleeds into October, slowly but surely. Billy climbs through his window a little more often, instead of reserving their little... trysts? That doesn't sound right. Rendezvous? Also not right. Whatever they are, they're happening more frequently throughout the week instead of only on the weekends. Steve stops locking his window at all, and Billy stops calling ahead or throwing pebbles to get his attention before climbing up. 

Sometimes Billy shows up with bruises, and sometimes he shows up with a grin that makes it clear _exactly_ what he's here for. He stops caring about whether or not Steve's parents are home, because most days of the month they're just fucking gone, somewhere out of the state or even out of the country. Steve hardly knows or cares, and they don't bother to tell him very often anymore. The only extended conversations he's had with his parents since he found out he wasn't graduating have resulted in his mother crying and his father listing out all the reasons that Steve's a disappointment, so he's not exactly in the mood to talk to them either. 

He keeps his job at the video store and socks the money into an account at a local bank that his parents don't have access to, saves it up because he's pretty sure that... well, he's not pretty sure of anything, honestly, but he's got a feeling that he's going to need his own money sooner rather than later, unless he magically becomes less Steve and more Perfect Son. Plus, like. He kind of has thoughts of running off to California with Billy or something. He just doesn't entertain them often, because it's not like they've got a claim on each other or anything. 

Point is, Steve works evenings at the video store. He's a closer now, because he's nineteen and therefore legally responsible enough to be in charge of money and a key to the store now or something. Steve thinks it's ridiculous to give him that kind of responsibility, because he always to have Robin count the till _anyway_ so that they can get out of the store at a reasonable time, and she's not a closer yet. Of course, now they're both seniors instead of Robin being a year under him (along with Billy), so she can spend the lazier evenings in the store coaching Steve through the bullshit he's still not getting in his stupid Algebra 2 class.

So these days, Steve gets in the door around 8:30 at night, sometimes 9. Lately he's been coming home to his own bedroom light already on, though, the window wide open despite the chill that's started rapidly approaching in the October evenings. Sometimes, he gets into his room just for Billy to shove him against the door and make him feel better about his day. Sometimes, he gets in and Billy's got a fast food bag on his desk for him.

Tonight, Steve gets home to see his bedroom light on, but the window isn't open. He smiles even before he gets the front door unlocked, because if the light's on, Billy's there, and if the window's closed, Billy is either finally sick of Steve bitching about walking into a cold room and closing the window himself _or_ finally feeling comfortable enough in Steve's space that he doesn't need to give himself an out. Maybe a little of both.

His parents aren't home, so he stops in the kitchen to grab two beers before he heads upstairs. He'll come back for food if there's none waiting for him on the desk, but if he doesn't _have_ to make it, he really doesn't want to. He's kind of half-hoping Billy's not in one of those moods where he likes to shove Steve against the door, because, honestly, Steve's _tired._ Fortunately (or unfortunately, jury's out), he opens the door to his bedroom to find Billy kicked back on his bed with a book open in his lap _and_ a bag of fast food on the desk.

"You're my favorite," is the first thing that falls out of Steve's mouth as he goes first for the bag, and then to flop onto the bed next to Billy.

"Yeah, I know," Billy says with a soft grin, folding down the corner of his page and setting the book aside. 

He leans down to kiss Steve, just a quick peck - he's been doing it more lately, kissing Steve hello and goodbye when they're in private, sometimes apparently just because he feels like it. This whole thing between them is starting to feel more like it did when things were good with Nancy, when Steve was excited to see her and she was excited to see him, but _more_ somehow. Like a relationship, if Steve's brave enough to say the word.

He's not. He hasn't asked about it, because he's afraid of what the answer will be. So he just takes whatever Billy's willing to give him here and that's enough, for the moment. Everything just feels so fragile between them, still, even if it's not as fragile as it was before.

Steve eats lying down. His feet and his head both fucking hurt, but the headache is at least easing up with the food. "You're going to choke like that," Billy says after watching Steve for a few minutes.

"Usually you like it when I choke," Steve replies between fries.

"Yeah, on my _dick_ , not on a french fry." After watching him for a few more fries, Billy rolls his eyes and shifts, gets a grip on the front of Steve's shirt and _hauls_ him into a sitting position. He just outright manhandles Steve into resting between his legs, back to Billy's front. 

And like, Steve knows that Billy is _strong,_ okay, but there's a difference in Billy putting Steve where he wants him when they're in the middle of fucking and... this. Because this feels a lot like cuddling. Which should feel kind of ridiculous, because they're both fully grown and kind of tall guys, but instead of feeling silly... it's just _nice_. Steve _likes_ this, being held to Billy's chest, Billy's arms around him. He feels, like... fucking _safe_ or something. If he's being honest, since the whole Upside-Down thing started, safety is a feeling that Steve doesn't have often at all.

"You get your math done?" Billy asks, leans his chin on Steve's shoulder and tightens the hold he's got on Steve's waist like he's afraid Steve's going to run. "Gimme a fry."

Steve holds the fry up when Billy makes no move to actually lift one of his hands, feeding it to Billy over his shoulder. They've been doing the affectionate shit more too, lately, like Billy curling around him when he actually does sleep over and kisses that don't lead to anything sexy. Steve's living for it, eats it up. Probably comes across as a little more desperate than he should, but hey, he's entitled to some fucking affection after... everything.

"Robin wrote the problems out for me in actual numbers instead of words," he says in reply. "So I can do 'em at lunch tomorrow." He gets the _concept_ , kind of, but the words get jumbled and mashed together in the word problems, and half the time it takes so long for Steve to get through _reading_ the fucking problem, only to find out that he's got the wrong numbers out of it later, that he just winds up frustrated and never actually gets more than two or three problems in.

"Good," Billy says, while chewing because he's disgusting and isn't at all dissuaded by Steve telling him so. "Because we have to have the first part of _Fahrenheit 451_ read by first-hour tomorrow, and you haven't started it."

Steve's mood plummets, just like that. He drops the hand that he'd been about to use to shove another fry into Billy's mouth as his stomach sinks like a stone in the water. Billy's been doing this lately, been showing up when Steve gets off work to help him study, but they've been doing mostly math and science. He doesn't want to read with Billy there, doesn't want to embarrass himself by trying to sound out words or have to whip out the fucking ruler he keeps in his desk so that he can read one line at a time. Billy hasn't heard him read out loud - no one has in a long time, except for Robin and maybe Nancy and the tutor that his parents hired that only showed up for four sessions. He won't even read aloud in class, just outright refused for a long time and took the write-up or detention, and now his teachers know not to ask. 

"Hey," Billy says, soft in a way he's been lately, when Steve least expects it. He's still sharp, don't get him wrong, but it's seemed as though he's been trying to sand down some edges around Steve. He's even been doing it around the kids, to an extent. "Stevie, there's gonna be a test on it. You gotta read it." 

Steve swallows, and shoves the rest of the order of fries back in the bag. He's not hungry anymore. "Yeah, just... let me get out of my uniform."

The hold that Billy has on Steve's waist loosens, and Steve slips off the bed. "Oh, baby, you know how much I _love_ watching you get undressed," Billy says, lecherous in a way that should be over-the-top and kind of cheesy, and would be, except that Steve knows he means it. It's enough that it draws a smile out of Steve, and he makes sure to give a little shimmy when he's changing his pants, because they've also been doing this thing lately where they've been joking with each other in addition to making out and hooking up (and apparently studying and sleeping). When Steve gets his pajama drawer open, Billy adds, "Hey, uh. I didn't bring pants to sleep in."

Billy never does bring pants to sleep in. Honestly Steve never knows if Billy's sleeping over or not. He's pretty sure that, sometimes, _Billy_ doesn't even know if he's sleeping over or not. There's an almost-delicate balance to it, so Steve bites back a little too-soft smile and grabs one of the pairs he's designated as Billy's over the past few weeks. He tries not to push either way, afraid that the scale will tip too far and send him off the other end of the see-saw.

"You want a shirt?" he asks without turning around, because sometimes Billy has bruises he wants to hide or is feeling weird about his Mindflayer scars. Sometimes he takes the shirt, sometimes he tells Steve he thinks the scars just add to his sex appeal. Which, like, Steve gets the indecision and the general _weirdness_ about it, for lack of a better word. Shit happens. It's another thing he tries not to push - just offers, accepts and accommodates Billy's answer, and the world goes on.

Tonight, Steve gets the answer, "Nah," from Billy, so he just closes the drawer and tosses the pants at him, making sure to aim for his face while Billy's distracted by the sight of Steve in his underwear. He's kind of hoping the whole studying thing derails here, at the undressing stage. Sometimes, one or both of them gets distracted and they never actually get re-dressed. It usually starts with a comment from Billy about what exactly he likes about Steve half-dressed. Apparently, though, tonight he's dead-set on Steve reading that fucking book, because no comment is forthcoming, and Steve ends up dressed again. So does Billy, albeit without a shirt now.

It's a shame.

Steve approaches the bed again. He tries to find comfort in the fact that it's Billy, tries to be grateful for someone willing to help him at all, but he _knows_ what's coming - the sound of his own voice stumbling over words that he should know and letters ending up where they shouldn't be in the first place. Failure is imminent, he thinks as he flops down onto the bed. Better for Billy to find out he's an idiot now, he supposes.

He reaches for the book. Billy holds it out of his reach and says, "No. Where you were before."

The sentence doesn't compute for a second, like Steve's brain just can't make sense of it. He's not one to turn down affection, though, even if he's got to _read_ to get it, so he situates himself with his back to Billy's bare chest. He does take a minute to get comfortable, starts to feel the ache of the day in his feet and the telling weight of how good sleep would feel if he were to just lay down and close his eyes. He ends up kind of sprawled lower than Billy, head resting back on Billy's shoulder. It's nice. It feels _nice_.

When Steve reaches for the book again, Billy bats his hand away. "If you fall asleep," Billy says, warningly. "I will pinch you awake. You have to pass this stupid quiz, got it?"

"Yeah," Steve agrees, even though he's still not quite getting it. How's he supposed to read if Billy's holding the book up there? 

"Good." Billy clears his throat, and then says, " _It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed_."

Even then, it takes Steve a moment to understand. To realize exactly what Billy means when he's talking - Billy's reading _to_ him. He wonders if someone told Billy, or if Billy just figured it out. For a moment, he's embarrassed, but then it's kind of... washed away by the understanding that Billy didn't make him explain or ask, Billy didn't put him through trying to sound out words. 

There's a pinch to his side, and Steve starts. "What did I say?" Billy's looking down at him, but his fingers are already soothing over the spot where he'd pinched, light and playful more than anything.

"I wasn't asleep." Steve can't help the tired smile. "Keep reading, I'm paying attention, I promise."

"You damn well better be. _He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace_..."

Steve does end up falling asleep, towards the end of the first part, and Billy doesn't pinch him awake. 

He still passes the quiz.


	3. mother warned me about hanging with the wrong crowd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> November, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sick and I wanted some good old Billy holding Steve through a panic attack and this is what happened.

November comes with a chill that seeps into Steve's bones and makes him wary, uncomfortable. He's never been a fan of the way winter creeps in slowly, tendrils of frost that appear on the trees and the plants and his car. The cold kills everything, and Steve hates it, makes him think of things lurking into everything that he knows, choking the life of the world away. 

There's something about the winter coming sets him on edge and makes him shake awake with nightmares and anxiety, even though he knows the gate is closed. It's over. The Upside-Down isn’t gone, exactly, but it is locked away. Something in the back of his mind doubts it, whispers “Are you sure?” when he’s trying to sleep until he's tossing and turning and wishing Billy would come just for company, or sex, or studying. Just so he's not alone. Nancy says it’s PTSD, post-traumatic stress disorder, and that he should talk to a therapist, but like... who is he supposed to talk to about all of the bullshit? 

He's pretty sure that "I sleep with a bat with nails in it beside my bed because I'm afraid of monsters from another dimension" might actually get him sent away to some kind of asylum or something.

Turns out he legally can’t talk to anyone. The guys in suits that turn up at his door make that clear through a series of papers that Steve has to sign - they explain them to him, at least, and it all boils down to “this never happened” and “don’t ever talk about it.” The check they hand him has a big number on it, which is... nice, he guesses. 

Whatever. Put a price on his fucking trauma.

It’s a big enough number that when he deposits it, he realizes that he doesn’t have to work at the video store anymore. He plans to anyway, but decides to cut back his shifts so that he has a little more time to devote to actually graduating this year. It'll be a nice little fall-back plan for when his parents actually get around to fully cutting him off, since it's really only a matter of time. He'll get to see the kids more, learns through a phone call that they also got visits from guys in suits with documents to sign and checks, albeit those (mostly) got handed to the adults and shoved into college funds. One exception being Jane Hopper, who got to sign all of her own papers and, apparently, got a much bigger check than everyone else.

He doesn’t see Billy that weekend, and Billy doesn’t come to school on Monday. By Wednesday, Steve’s in a little bit of a panic, and catches Max coming out of the middle school with Jane and Lucas. It’s a desperate move. He doesn’t know if Max knows about him and Billy, doesn't know how Max would react to finding out. He _thinks_ that she and Billy have been cooler, have seemed a little more at ease with each other than they were before the whole clusterfuck that was Starcourt.

So he tries to play it cool, says, “Hey, where’s your brother been?” like he’s asking about the weather.

Max glances from Steve to the other two rugrats. “Can you give me a ride home?” she asks him.

Jane makes a confused face, looking between Steve and Max. “But Hop’s giving you a ride.”

“Yeah, but I need to talk to Steve,” Max replies, with what he thinks is supposed to be a subtle, meaningful look. However, Max is thirteen and thus hasn't developed the art of subtle _anything_. Or well, maybe Max has, but Jane and Lucas sure as hell haven't, and just look suspicious as hell and a little concerned.

Anyway, Steve ends up with Max in the passenger seat. He takes the long way to her house as she talks, grips the steering wheel with white knuckles and bites his lip bloody as he listens to her tell about guys in suits taking Billy away “for a few days.” She hasn't spoken to him, though, has no idea where he could be, and Steve thinks of the tunnels. If it comes down to it, if Billy doesn't come back...

When they finally pull up to Max’s house, there’s no one else home. Steve worries about that - he can’t help it, he’s the babysitter, these are his kids. Max says it's for the best, that Susan and Neil are convinced now more than ever that Billy's involved in something shady and terrible, and he's somehow gotten her involved too. Because apparently all the suits had said to Max was about all they said to Steve, which, it turns out, sounds pretty fucking ominous to anyone who isn't "in the know."

She doesn't get out right away though. Instead, she clutches her backpack and looks at the house, and then back at Steve. "When he leaves at night," she starts, slow and unsure. "When Neil kicks him out, or when he stays out, he's with you, right?" Max looks at him, shrewd and fierce underneath the baby-fat of her cheeks. 

Steve feels like she'll know if he lies. So he doesn't. "Yeah," he says. He makes the conscious decision to shut his mouth on the next word, before he says anything else and lets a secret slip that isn't his to tell. 

"Good," she replies after a long moment. She sounds relieved, and a little teary like she's about to cry. Which, like, if Max starts crying in the front seat of Steve's car, he's going to need to call for back-up. He's a great babysitter, but not _that_ great. "When he gets back, if he comes to your place first, can you, like, call me? Just so I know."

"Sure," Steve says, a little bewildered and definitely alarmed, but then she's out of his car and striding up to the front door like it's personally offended her. Out of his hands, then. It's alright, he thinks, and puts his car into drive again. Because he understands how sometimes, you have to keep grief and fear to yourself just to make sure no one else can see your weaknesses and make a target out of you.

It's two more days before Billy's back. Steve spends them fitfully, makes it to school and work but doesn't pay any attention to class or the rumor mill. He puts in for his new, reduced hours and tries his best to study with Robin's and Nancy's help. He slowly makes his way through the final part of _Fahrenheit 451_ , thinks about safe places and saving what you can while the world burns around you. Symbolism and shit. The last line sticks with him, not because of the religious symbolism that they've been talking about in class, but because he thinks maybe it's a good kind of thing to hold onto - the future, or maybe the people around who can help make it better. Choosing your path instead of walking the one chosen for you.

Bullshit like that.

He's in bed when the window slides open, and by that time the warmth has seemed to seep away for the night. It's unlocked, because of course it is, just in case, even though he's been keeping it closed because of the cold November air. He's almost afraid to roll over and look. He's sure it's Billy, recognizes the quiet twin thumps of his boots hitting the floor as he levers his body over the windowsill. He's just afraid that he'll look and see something wearing Billy's face instead, fingers itching for the bat and to pull the covers over his head all at the same time.

It's just. It's a lot. Fear and relief and anxiety and things he doesn't want to name just yet. So he avoids it, runs away from it by shutting his eyes and pretending he's asleep, just like he did when he was a kid. Only this time, instead of closing his eyes and listening to his parents fight downstairs, back when they still cared enough to fight about anything, Steve hears the soft sounds of Billy kicking his boots off. He hears the drawer of his own dresser open and shut again, the soft sounds of fabric as Billy changes. 

Relief and all the things he doesn't want to put a name to yet win out over fear and anxiety. He opens his eyes as the bed dips, like he's just coming awake, like he never, ever did when his mother would crack his door to check on him after one of those loud arguments back when she still cared enough to check on him. 

He's reaching a hand out before he even realizes he's doing it, across the bed to where Billy's slipping under the covers. Billy stops, gaze darting to Steve with an almost-guilty expression, caught out doing something he thinks he might get in trouble for, that he wasn't supposed to do. When Steve's fingers curl into the soft, threadbare material of a t-shirt that he's had for years and keeps in Billy's drawer, though, Billy seems to _melt_ , blowing out a heavy breath and sinking into the bed. 

He closes his eyes when he does, goes boneless in a way that Steve's only seen when he wakes up before Billy. It's close enough that Steve thinks maybe Billy's just gone to sleep, well and truly passed out, but when he tries to pull his hand back to his side of the bed, Billy's closes around it. Quick, desperate, and clinging. Like Steve's some kind of anchor to hold onto so he doesn't drift out to sea.

"Hey, baby," Billy finally says, after swallowing a couple times. He sounds hoarse, but he's loosened his grip on Steve's hand, curled it into something a little less urgent. Softer, fingers laced through Steve's like they're some junior high couple going steady for the first time. 

"Hey," Steve replies, because it's the only word he can think of that isn't _'oh thank god'_ or _'I thought you were gone again'_ or any of those feelings he hasn't named yet. He clears his throat, which is suddenly a little tight, and if it's a little wet when he says, "Welcome back," Billy doesn't mention it. 

There's a little bit of light coming in from outside, Indiana moon and stars and sporadic buzzing streetlights. It's enough that Steve can see where Billy's hair is a little disheveled and definitely not fixed, where he's got a cut above his eye. His throat has marks on it too, and Steve wants to ask. He's afraid to ask, afraid to break the little spell that's surrounded them. He's afraid that if he pushes just a little too hard, Billy will run, out the window and away from where they're curled facing each other, Steve's hand in his.

"In the morning," Billy says, still gravelly like he's screamed for hours and hours and no one listened. "Ask me about it in the morning, alright? It's... I'm tired, Stevie, I just wanna sleep."

Steve nods against the pillow, but he doesn't let go of Billy's shirt. Billy doesn't make him, either. In fact, Billy scoots a little closer, until Steve can feel the heat of his breath and their legs are tangling together. A little bit of panic shoots through him when Billy lets go of his hand, but it's only so that Billy can softly pet his palm down Steve's cheek and neck, brush the hair that's settled there back behind his ear like he knows Steve doesn't like to sleep with it tickling him. 

"We can finish the book this weekend." Billy sounds rough, and not just in the way where he's tired or his voice is worn out from yelling. "You can catch me up on what I missed."

"I finished it." _Damn it_ , but Steve still has that lump in his throat. He's not going to cry, he's not going to break down. He wasn't the one taken, after all, he's not the one with a cut on his eyebrow and bruises that look like burns on his neck. He isn't the one who yelled and screamed and maybe even begged his own throat raw. "Tonight. We probably still wanna, like, go over it, but I finished it."

Billy hasn't moved his hand from Steve's neck, fingers curling gentle in Steve's hair, rhythmic and soothing. "Yeah? What'd you think of the ending?"

 _When we reach the city,_ Steve thinks, the words echoing around his mind. "I liked it," he says, "It was hopeful." His voice cracks on the last word, and he's lost the battle, eyes squeezing shut. The hand he's got still clinging to Billy's shirt - to _Steve's_ shirt on Billy - flutters because he wants to hide his face but he also doesn't want to let go, just in case Billy disappears. Instead, Steve turns his face into the pillow and tries to breathe instead of sob, because he... he doesn't know. He doesn't want to seem weak, or something. Even if the relief at Billy being _back_ is pounding through his veins, mixing with the anger and... and _sadness_ at Billy hoarse, burned, screaming, scarred from the Mind Flayer, bruises on his back, Neil Hargrove yelling -

"Whoa, Stevie, _Stevie._ "

Steve can't _breathe_. 

"Hey, baby, it's okay." Billy starts to move back, sit up or something as Steve gasps, but Steve's got a death grip on his shirt, hears himself sob out a desperate, wordless plea for Billy not to go. "I'm not, Steve, babe, I'm not going _anywhere."_

Steve wants to apologize. He wants to be the one comforting Billy, not the one being comforted, but he can't breathe, can't do anything beyond gasp and cry and cling. He kind of gets lost in it for a little while, tunnel visions like he does sometimes when he's curled up in the floor of the shower or in his car, parked out where no one can see. When he eventually comes out of it, Billy's pressed to him, got Steve pulled half on top of him and a hand in his hair. He can feel the soothing warmth of Billy's hand sweeping down his back and up again, and he can hear the beat of Billy's heart, strong, under his cheek.

He sniffles. His face heats. "I'm so-" he starts, because Billy shouldn't have to comfort him, he should be comforting Billy.

"If you tell me you're sorry..." Billy cuts him off. He doesn't finish the sentence, though - he hasn't been, lately, choosing to drift into silence instead of make some physical threat or tell Steve he's going to leave. Sometimes when it slips out anyway, Billy catches himself and changes it, follows it up with _"Nah, I wouldn't._ " Like Steve doesn't know that, like Steve doesn't feel the way that Billy's fingers catch on the little scar on Steve's hairline. 

But still. "I just-" Steve tries.

Billy shifts his hold on Steve with some kind of cross between a frustrated groan and an exhausted sigh, flips them just like he does when he wants Steve under him. And then Steve's looking _up,_ at blue eyes and a just-healing cut above Billy's eyebrow, at blond hair that hasn't seen a proper product in days, at Billy braced above him in Steve's shirt, in Steve's pants, in _Steve's bed_.

"Listen close," Billy says, soft like he's got a secret, enunciated like it's important. "You listening?"

Steve gives a little nod when his voice fails him. He can't look away, can't focus on anything else. The world could end and he wouldn't know it right now.

Billy licks his lip. When he speaks, his voice comes out a little shaky, but convicted nonetheless. "If there's anyone in this godforsaken hillbilly hellhole they call Hawkins that you can lose your shit around, it's me. Got it?"

And maybe there's something here, in this moment between them, that speaks to people who want to make a better future _for_ them and _with_ them. Maybe, Steve thinks, this is them choosing their paths instead of the ones laid out for them to follow, something like " _When we reach the city_ " echoing between them, here in Steve's bed, with Billy above him. Billy came home to _him_ , after all.

"Stevie," Billy says softly. "I'm not going anywhere, okay? They're not gonna come back for me. I'm not gonna run off. I won't disappear on you." 

Steve swallows, and then has to do it again when the lump doesn't move. "Got it," he says, and meets Billy halfway when he leans down for a kiss.


	4. your attention isn't worth my weight in fool's gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December, 1985

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want y'all to know, I had no real direction for this fic except for "hurt/comfort" and "write your feelings, Ely!" So here's some hurt/comfort and some feelings, now actually headed in a direction. I'm super tempted to go back and give chapters names from lyrics from the song this whole fic started with, so if you see that happen... I gave in.
> 
> This fic turned really Steve-centric, I hope that's okay. I really got into the Harrington family dynamics more than I expected to. Steve's a bit of a mess, still, but don't worry, it'll all get resolved. We'll also get some good Billy hurt/comfort going too. Next updates will be for parts 7 and 8, and then I'll do 9 and 10 together.
> 
> Please make sure you take a look at the tags added for this update. Chapter 4 has mentions of Steve's mother being an alcoholic and addicted to prescription medication.

December's chill is worse than November's. December in Indiana is gray and cold, but not enough snow to make it worth anyone's while just yet - the snow comes at the end of the year if it comes at all, turns January into too-many snow days and February into dirty sleet on the sidewalk. It could just be that Steve hates December with everything that he has, as much as he kind of likes Christmas. Or, well. He likes the _idea_ of Christmas anyway, the picture-perfect tableau of a Christmas tree and comfy sweaters and people that you care about all around you. Hot chocolate and presents and shit. 

When he was little, he liked it. Loved it, even. Back then, his parents were still trying to make it work, he thinks now. So they put effort into it like they don't now. Steve used to decorate the tree with his mother while Christmas carols played on the radio and his father made hot chocolate on the stove. He has a vague memory of sneaking downstairs when he was like five to see his father tugging his mother under the mistletoe while wearing a Santa hat, of making ornaments in school and proudly bringing them home to show off for a place of honor on the tree. 

That was before the affair. The second one, anyway, back when his father told his mother it would "never happen again" and "was only a moment of weakness," and she believed him. That was before Steve's parents kept being called to school because he wasn't where he should be academically, before they found out that their kid was too stupid to keep up, before his mom started drinking her way through the day and taking Valium to sleep while his father chose work and secretaries half his age over her again and again.

They started going to parties on Christmas Eve when Steve was nine, he thinks, instead of putting up a Christmas tree. He went to them too, until he was old enough to stay home instead. He opened his presents by himself and went to bed before they got home, found something to do at someone else's house before they woke up, hungover and distant. Now it's like Christmas is everywhere but here, skips over the Harrington house - no tree or decorations or carols, just three presents wrapped by a department store with Steve's name on them in unfamiliar handwriting. By the time Steve was fifteen and still himself, still a failure with no future, they were gone by New Year's Eve to some other state, somewhere else that wasn't this winter mausoleum of a house.

So when his mom leaves a message on the answering machine from god knows where a week after Thanksgiving saying that they're going to be home to spend Christmas with him, Steve's confused. Apprehensive. Anxious for the entirety of the next month until his parents finally roll in on the 23rd with all the fanfare that they ever do, which is really just... Steve gets home from the Byers' informal Christmas party and there's another car in the driveway, a light on downstairs that usually isn't. 

The first night isn't terrible. He kind of starts to feel like maybe this will be a good thing, when he walks in and finds his mom decorating the Christmas tree. His dad's not downstairs, already holed up in his office, but Steve's always gotten along better with his mom anyway. The first night is actually _good,_ is the thing, the first night is Steve talking to his mom like he hasn't in years about Nancy and Jonathan and the kids. She's not drunk, and she's not slurring her words half-asleep on twice her prescribed dose of Valium. 

She's his _mom_ again, Steve finds himself thinking, and he ends up telling her little bits about Billy. About how he hopes it's going somewhere good, about how it's a little more intense than Nancy, different. He's careful - feels a little guilty, actually, the way he just lets his mom think that Billy is actually _Billie_ , that he's dating a girl. He's not sure who it's for, though, can't really tell if he feels guilty for lying to his mother or guilty because he lied about Billy like he's ashamed of Billy. 

He's not, for the record. Hawkins is just small, and it would be bad if it got back to Neil Hargrove. That's all.

"You should invite her to meet me sometime," his mother says, patting his hand before she stands up and stretches. She looks lighter than he's seen her in recent years. "She sounds feisty. I think I'd like her."

"Yeah," Steve agrees, and doesn't say that Billy isn't from the right income bracket, doesn't say that Billy's music is the kind his parents hate, doesn't say that Billy is a boy. All he says is, "Feisty is a good description," and then, "Good night, Mom."

He doesn't see his father. The light in the office is off when Steve heads upstairs. When he gets into his room and goes to bed, Billy's not there, and Steve doesn't think he'll come through the window. But there's no sound of his parents fighting downstairs, there's a Christmas tree in his living room, and Steve has a cautious sort of hope in his chest that he doesn't want to own up to just yet. 

So of course it all goes to hell the next day.

Well, the day is fine. Steve spends it with his mom, watches the marathon of Christmas specials on TV and notices that she doesn't have a single drink of alcohol all day. The evening is when it all collapses, crashes and burns like a implosion, slowly at first, and then all at once. It starts with his parents - his mom, really, his dad doesn't have much to say then - telling him about the divorce over dinner and culminates in his father shouting at him while his mother cries on the couch.

It's somewhere between hearing about the baby his father is having with _this_ secretary and halfway down the list of Steve's flaws that he loses it. He kind of blanks out after hearing about how this kid won't be stupid, won't be a disappointment, will be the son that his dad always wanted instead of Steve. He's actually still in the middle of his rant when Steve just. Snaps.

" _Good for him!"_ Steve yells, sudden and startling. There's a breath of silence, his father stopping in the middle of his sentence. Steve's never yelled back before. Never really said anything in response to the barrage of insults and disappointment. 

It's like the levee breaks after that, a tidal wave of chilly water rushing over him and drowning him. He can't keep the words back, can't shut his mouth and take the verbal hits on the chin anymore. "I hope to god he _is_ perfect! I hope he's _smart_ , and that he can fucking _read_ , and that he marries the perfect girl and has the perfect, stupid little life. And I hope that you _never_ get to be a part of it." 

Steve is shaking, finger quivering where it's pointed in front of him, and his father looks as though Steve's just hauled back and slapped him. Even his mother is silent, stunned out of her helpless, hiccuping sobs. Steve would cry too if he was alone, can feel the prick of it behind his eyes, but it's not really from a sadness. Instead it's from a years-deep sense of hurt and anger and resentment all swirling together like a blizzard warning. He tries not to cry around his father anymore, though, because you don't hand a man who wants to shoot you a loaded gun.

"I hope," Steve says a moment later, when his father still hasn't managed to say anything in return. "I hope he grows up with a mom who loves him, and I hope he has everything he ever wants, and I hope he realizes young that you're going to miss _every._ _Single_. _Second_ of it. I hope he figures out that nothing he _ever_ does will be enough for you. Because instead of being a dad, _you_ were too busy running around the world _knocking_ _your_ _secretaries up_ to care that your wife was drinking herself to death and your son needed _help!"_ His voice cracks a little, and he has to look away for a second, up at the ceiling. Away from his mother crying in the lights of the Christmas tree and the startlingly blank visage of his father. "A girl died in our pool and you didn't come back. I dealt with that. _Me!_ And you didn't even call!" Steve blinks, looks from the Christmas tree to his mother to the dark of the night outside, tries to breathe. 

"I-" his father starts, shocked, and Steve... 

Steve doesn't want to hear it.

Steve's gaze snaps back to him. He puts every ounce of what he has left of King Steve into that look, every inch of the little bitch he used to be that always got his way, and adds a hell of a lot of whatever Steve that can wield a nail bat and kill monsters and freak out about it later. His father stops cold, whatever excuse he was going to use dying. Steve doesn't want to hear that his dad was busy working, doesn't want more of a confirmation that he was never worth the time of day to his father. He doesn't need it. He knows.

"I hope he knows from the very beginning that the only thing you're looking for is an investment," Steve says. His voice shakes a little. He honestly doesn't care, fuck his dad. "And I hope that poor woman's smart enough to just take your child support check and not your last name."

He doesn't wait around to hear whatever his dad's got to say next, or listen to his mother cry into her hands. He needs to get the fuck out of this house, needs to get away from these people who want to pretend to be his parents when they gave that job up a long time ago. His keys are in his room, though, so he turns away and takes the stairs two at a time. His blood is still icy cold with anger, his eyes are stinging just a little with the thought that he's going to cry, emotional overwhelmed tears that he's really struggling to keep back.

He can't. _Men don't cry, Steven_ , he hears somewhere in the back of his mind, in a voice that sounds like his father's.

When Steve gets to his room, though, when he throws his door open with an almighty bang... he has to stop. The lamp next to his bed is on, and in the glow, Steve can see Billy, sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, forehead pressed to where his hands are clenched together into one fist. Steve's... relieved, he thinks, because he's always relieved to see Billy. Embarrassed. Still shaking with anger, none of it directed at Billy.

Steve closes his bedroom door behind him without thinking, and then throws the lock for an extra measure of security when his brain actually catches up to the action. That's when his limited courage fails him, though, because he can't actually step into the room. He just leans against his bedroom door and looks up, trying to blink back angry tears and breathe. Billy heard, had to have heard. When he finally feels like he's got a grip on himself, he opens his eyes again and naturally, like always, they find Billy.

Billy's looking back at him. He's tense, jaw tight, and his foot's already tapping the floor. Fuck, Steve can't fight with two people tonight, doesn't want this to self-destruct in front of his eyes too.

"I..." he starts, and then clears his throat, turns his gaze back to the ceiling. "How much did you..."

"Most of it," Billy answers, even though Steve can't get the rest of the question out. 

Steve nods against the door. He doesn't know what to say, exactly. Apologize for his fucked up family? Explain that he's not like his dad, that he's capable of caring about people other than himself? That he may have been the kind of man who cheats back before Nancy, before he figured out that other people were _people_ , but he's not now, he's _growing_ , he's _better_ than that. He's not even sure that Billy's mad about that, Billy could be mad about something Steve did yesterday at the party or that Steve wasn't here when he got here or...

"Stevie." 

When Steve opens his eyes again, Billy's closer. Like, really close, right in front of Steve close. He doesn't look as angry, though he's still got the lines in his forehead. He looks worried, maybe. Sad. 

Fuck, that's worse than angry.

"I'm sorry," Steve blurts in a whispered rush. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't know you were here." 

Billy stops him with a hand, thumbing gently at his cheek. Maybe Steve's crying again, he doesn't know. He's shaking, he thinks, but that might be the adrenaline comedown and the whiplash of emotions more than the shiver of anger that's quickly fading in favor of panic. He opens his mouth again, but Billy cuts him off. "Baby, I'm not mad at you."

"Oh." Steve blinks, and it's like the world rights itself a little. He's been working on that, trying not to project what he thinks is going on onto other people. It's hard when he's worked up. "Oh. Of course... right."

There's a moment where he's still unsure, but Billy leans in, up a little like he has to sometimes, and drags Steve's head down to meet him. Kisses his forehead, lingering, like that's something they do when they're not naked or under the covers. Despite everything, Steve gets a little flutter, feels a warmth in his chest that's fighting off the December cold. Every damn day, it seems that Billy's throwing him for a loop in the best of ways, like all Billy was waiting for was Steve's okay to be affectionate. A little romantic. 

_Loving_ , a little voice in the back of Steve's mind whispers quietly.

Billy tugs him toward the bed, and Steve goes. They're not in pajamas, but Billy drags him down on top of the covers, gets Steve right where he wants him - spoons him, like Steve's a girl, like Steve's not nearly six feet tall with an inch he holds over Billy sometimes. Just drags Steve back against him and twists their legs together, wedges an arm under Steve's head like a pillow and wraps the other around Steve's chest.

They stay like that for a minute. Longer. Until Steve is drifting a little, coming down from the anger and the panic, and softening up under the warmth of Billy's touch. Thawing, really. His anger's always run a little cold and brittle, cold shoulders and chilly looks. He doesn't go hot like Billy does, shatters like ice on a dark lake instead of a volcanic eruption. 

"Stevie," Billy says, softly nosing into the hair behind Steve's ear. "Steve, you're better than him. You know that, right?"

Steve presses half of his face into the arm under his head, and doesn't reply. He knows Billy wouldn't want to hear it - that he works at a video store, that he's an anxious mess most of the time, that he's got no prospects and no college will take him. 

So he stays quiet instead, but it's a few months into what Steve's started calling a relationship even if only in his head, and Billy _gets_ him like no one ever really has. He knows what Steve isn't saying now, and kisses at Steve's neck in silent response. Steve lives for these moments of affection that they don't get in public, even now when he feels like he's half-broken and Billy's trying to glue him back together. 

"Mom's getting the house in the divorce," he finally says, when he gets around to finding his voice again. It's shredded from emotion and yelling. "So, like. No need to dig into the hush money for an apartment yet, I guess."

"That's good." Billy's still kissing at Steve's neck, lower now. Steve kind of thinks he gets where this is going, and he's into it - he could use something good about tonight. "I got into mine a little."

Steve wrinkles his nose in confusion, twisting around as his curiosity wins out over wanting to keep his face hidden. "What did you buy?" He's half-afraid, honestly, that this is when Billy will tell him it's a bus ticket or something, that he's had enough of Hawkins, that he's leaving. Without Steve.

"A CD player and some dumb pop CDs for Max." Steve can hear the grin Billy's trying to hide in his neck, though, can feel it against his skin when Billy speaks. A little bloom of relief - Billy's staying a little longer, then. "A Christmas present for you."

Oh yeah. It's Christmas Eve. Steve honestly forgot for awhile. He's suddenly dying to know what Billy bought him, like he's seven and begging to open his presents one night early. "What? What did you get me?"

"Nope, it's not Christmas yet." Billy holds him fast when Steve makes a quietly outraged noise and tries to wiggle out of his hold. "You can't have your present 'til Christmas. Unless you're gonna give me mine?" 

Steve thinks of the set of jewelry under the bed, feathered earrings and rings and necklaces he's got wrapped neatly. They didn't actually say that they would buy each other presents, so he's a little surprised that he's getting one. Wasn't sure what to do with the present he got Billy. He just saw them and couldn't leave them behind when he thought they were so perfect. 

He smiles. "Nah, you can wait until the morning," he says. Finally, Billy's hold relents enough that Steve can turn and press his lips to Billy's. 

"Morning?" Billy mutters when they break away, but don't really separate farther than maybe a centimeter. "I think I can keep you busy until midnight, baby."

It's a distraction, plain and simple, and sometimes that's what Steve needs more than anything. Right now, it sounds pretty damn good, so he leans in for another kiss that Billy gladly gives him, and tries to forget about the rest of the night.

"Stevie, listen," Billy says, when the sweat is cooling and they're somewhat clean. They're naked under the covers. Steve's already halfway to sleep, burrowed into his shoulder, one of Billy's new necklaces around his neck. Even though it was a present for Billy, it's the one with the little metal feather, and Billy said, _"Looks better on you, baby, like Stevie Nicks."_

He thinks he hums in response, drifting on the cadence of Billy's voice and the steady rise and fall of his chest.

One of Billy's hands brushes down his back. "You'll never be like him. He can't see past the tip of his own dick, and you care _so_ _much_ about everyone, you couldn't be him if you tried. You couldn't be him, even if you wanted to be, you know?" 

Steve listens, but his eyes are closed and his body is heavy. It's a lot of effort to reply and drag himself back up from the comfortable, cotton warmth he's floating in. He doesn't think he needs to, though, because Billy's still wrapped around him, a weight keeping him where he is. 

"You're not gonna be him," Billy goes on, just as Steve started to drift to sleep. "And I'm not gonna be my dad either. We're gonna be better than that."

Steve falls asleep before he can agree, and dreams of growing wings and flying away, Billy golden in the sun.


	5. broken clock still keeps the time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> January, 1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please make sure to take a look at the tags added. Chapter 5 contains descriptions of abuse at the hand of Billy's father, and underage drinking.

Three weeks off of school is enough for the world to get back into regular business, even with the meltdown over Christmas. His parents are gone by the New Year, just like they always are - he doesn't say another word to his father in the three days that they stay after Christmas, and his father doesn't say a word to him. It helps that his father just doesn't seem to come down from his office all that often, and he doesn't seek Steve out. They pass each other in the hall once or twice like strangers, Steve's heart beating out of his chest as he walks on and doesn't look over. 

Steve figures they've said all they're going to say, probably for a very long time. He's fine with that.

When his parents leave, it's to different places. He's not sure where his father's going to, and he doesn't care. His mother, Steve knows, is going to her sister's house in Atlanta. She offers to stay, which is surprising. Steve's a little relieved when she doesn't, as novel as having his mother actually present is, instead of wandering like a ghost through the day. He's used to being alone most of the time, after all, and having his parents home feels more like having surprise guests in the house than having family. Uncomfortable, unwelcome, more stressful than enjoyable after a certain point. 

But after they go, it's... lonely. It always is, even though he's better without them there. Billy can't be there every day, after all, and as 1985 becomes 1986, Steve finds himself wishing that they were back in school already. The house is so big without someone there with him.

He invites Robin over on the first day of the year, in the evening. She's only too happy to abandon her stilted holiday with her extended family in favor of mimosas with Steve, and he guesses having someone to drink with is better than working his way through the liquor cabinet alone. She shows up with a look of such relief on her face that Steve's feeling better about everything already, tells him about her mother trying to navigate through a hushed conversation with every woman in the family, all concerned about Robin's apparent lack of a love life. Robin's aunts don't know about Heather Holloway.

Steve is starting to learn a little too much about Heather Holloway, on the other hand.

"Don't take this the wrong way," Robin says when they're a mimosa and a half down each, pitcher between them on Steve's bedroom floor. 

"You say that before you insult me," Steve interrupts. He's leaned back against the bed with his glass in his hand. He even found little umbrellas and crazy straws to stick in them. He's going to be happy if it kills him, damn it. "Like, you say stuff like, 'Don't take this the wrong way, Steve, but were you born in a barn,' right before you yell at me for _just eating_."

Robin snorts. She always gets a little giggly a drink in, but it takes her a long time to get well and truly drunk. Steve feels like she mixed the pitcher a little weak, though. "You ' _just eating_ ' looks like something out of a horror movie half the time. Food flying everywhere, no napkin in sight," she grins at him though. "I'm not going to insult you." Steve just looks at her until she rolls her eyes and concedes, "This time."

"Then you may continue," Steve says, and hides his grin in his glass. 

"Don't take this the wrong way," Robin starts again, and her face goes a little more serious than before. Robin's always a little serious in Steve's opinion, especially on the heels of Starcourt, but she's not stoic by any means. Her face gives a lot away, Steve thinks, often speaks louder about her true feelings than whatever comes out of her mouth. Not that she's not blunt - she's pretty fucking blunt. "Why are you ringing in the New Year with me, and not Billy?"

Robin's one of the few people who know about Steve and Billy being a whatever-they-are. Robin's actually the only person who knows _officially_ , as in Steve told her in explicit terms, _'I've been fucking around with Billy Hargrove_.' He's pretty sure Jonathan and Nancy know too, because they keep looking at him and Billy like they're trying to solve a puzzle. Steve's pretty sure Max knows, given their conversation, and Jane can read minds and shit. Steve's not worried about Jane, she's good at keeping things to herself. Maybe Will too, but birds of a feather and all that - Steve's pretty sure he's going to be fielding questions he's not entirely sure how to answer soon. Point is, Robin's the only one who Steve's told, the only one that really _knows_ for sure, in no uncertain terms.

Steve shrugs. Because Robin is the one he called, he guesses. "He hasn't come over in a couple of days," he says. "I saw him the day my parents left which was like... three days ago? And then I talked to him for awhile when he brought Max to hang out with the kids the day after that. It's hard to make, like, definitive plans when we're out of school." He doesn't mention the window or how he leaves it unlocked all the time now. Robin may know, but she doesn't know _everything_. "It's only been a couple of days."

"So call him," she says, nudging her umbrella out of the way with her nose to get at the purple crazy straw. "Like, don't get me wrong, Steve, I love you, and I want to hang out with you, I'm just confused. I thought you guys would be ringing in 1986 with orgasms or something." She takes a drink of her mimosa, finishes the glass while Steve thinks of what to say to that. "Which is what I'd be doing with Heather if the Holloways weren't, you know. Celebrating their return to life."

Only in Hawkins can people die and come back to life to minimal fanfare. Will Byers, Hop, the Holloways, Billy Hargrove... at one point, people disappearing and coming back is just a fact of life. 

"I don't... call him," he says, watching her pour another drink. It's fine, he's got an empty guest room with her name on it, after all, and her parents know that she and Steve aren't a thing and will never, ever be a thing. So they won't throw a fit about her staying over - besides, Robin's mom is pretty much well into 'she's an adult, she'll do what she wants,' even if her dad isn't exactly on board with that line of thinking. 

Robin just raises her eyebrows in a silent question.

The thing is, Steve can't say something like, _"I don't call him because if his dad finds out about us he might actually kill Billy_ ," or even, _"I don't call his house because god knows what will set off his dad next and I can't be the reason for the bruises, I can't do that to him."_ It's not like Robin wouldn't understand, it's just that it's not his secret to tell, and he's sure that Billy wouldn't appreciate him telling it. She doesn't know about Billy's dad. No one knows about Billy's dad outside of the Hargrove-Mayfield family, except for Steve. People may _suspect_ , but no one _knows_. 

She puts the glass down on the floor when Steve doesn't respond. "Steve," she says, carefully. " _Why_ don't you call him? If he's your _boyfriend_ , you should be able to call him."

"It's not like..." Steve knocks his head back against the mattress. "Listen, we're not _official_ , okay, neither of us has ever said, like, 'boyfriend' or anything. And I don't _call him_ , we just don't _do that_." He looks down at his mimosa and takes a long drink. "I don't think he would want me to call him, Rob. Besides, I'm not even sure I'm a long-term kind of thing for Billy, you know? Like, he could just pick up and go, he doesn't _need me_ like I-" He stops himself. He takes another drink instead of continuing on, knocks the rest of the mimosa back while Robin watches.

She doesn't say anything for a handful of seconds, watches Steve like she's waiting for him to keep going. When he doesn't, instead putting his empty glass on the floor and dropping his head back against his bed again, she blows out a soft sigh. "Steve," she starts, consoling in that way that Steve _hates_ sometimes, because he _knows_ he's hopeless, okay, but he's not so stupid he can't read the writing on the wall.

The sound of the window sliding open, loud and clattering, stops her, though. Robin shrieks instead, startling Steve into flailing to his feet and knocking the mimosa pitcher over in the process, planting his feet between whatever's coming through that window and Robin. Except the Upside-Down is closed away, and all the monsters these days are just the product of Steve's mind and a good helping of trauma. The only thing that comes through his window is Billy, albeit usually a little quieter than this.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Billy says, halfway through the window - his head, an arm, and one leg are in, but the other half of his body is still on the other side, dangling over the lattice and the tree he uses to get in. "I didn't know-"

"Why is he in the _fucking_ _window?"_ Robin demands, breathlessly indignant.

"Why do you have a _fucking bat?"_ Billy snaps back. He wavers, glancing at Steve with an uncertainty that Steve hasn't seen on him since that first night. 

That's when Steve notices the black eye and the blood on his cheek, the trails of it dried down the arm that Billy's got inside. He's not wearing a coat, just jeans and a t-shirt, and Steve _knows_. Fuck. What a way to start the year. Steve glances over his shoulder at Robin, who also seems to have caught on to the fact that Billy's at least injured, even if she may not know why, staring at him with wide eyes and a loosening grip on the bat that she'd grabbed from under Steve's bed. 

Billy looks at Robin, and then his eyes dart back to Steve. "I can-"

"No," Steve says before Billy can even get the whole offer out. "I don't want you to leave. If you don't want to leave."

"I can leave," Robin offers quietly when Billy hesitates further.

Strangely enough, that seems to decide him. He makes an annoyed grunt in the negative and finishes coming through, closing the window behind him to cut off the January wind. "No, you can... You can get the fuckin' first aid kit," he mutters, mostly to the floor.

Robin looks at Steve, who's relaxed from one adrenaline rush only to launch into the spiral of worry that always comes when Billy shows up looking like this. Not exactly like this, if Steve's being honest, because now that Billy's fully in the room, Steve's realizing that this may be the worst Steve's ever seen him. "It's in the bathroom," he says when he can manage words a long, long moment later. "Under the sink."

She nods slowly, tearing her gaze away from Billy to carefully lean the bat up against the wall. "I'll get stuff to clean the..." She trails off and makes a circular sweeping motion with both of her hands in the general direction of the orange juice and champagne that's now soaking into his gray carpeting. Shit. He's probably going to have to call someone about this. Or maybe just buy a rug. 

The pitcher and the glasses, now empty, go with Robin when she steps out, and she closes Steve's bedroom door behind her softly. Steve could kiss her for it, but he'd much rather kiss Billy, who's still turned away and looking out the window like he's thinking of climbing back out. When Steve crosses the room and gently touches Billy's arm with his fingertips, Billy starts, looks at Steve like he's not sure he's really there for a second. 

"You're freezing," Steve says, and runs his hand up Billy's arm. It's strange - Billy usually runs hot, like a furnace that Steve loves to attach himself to, but he's practically an ice cube. "Did you _walk_ here?" The black eye looks a couple of days into healing, but Billy's knuckles are scraped when Steve examines them, but it doesn't seem as though anything is broken. Just bloody, cuts all over his hand and fingers. Steve wants to ask. He doesn't, he never does. Figures if Billy wants him to know, he'd say something.

It's enough that Billy lets Steve gently look him over, and it's enough that Steve is the one he comes to instead of... well, wherever Billy would go. If Billy would go anywhere. The point is, that Steve doesn't need the answers, he just needs to know that Billy's got somewhere safe to go and someone to patch him up, remind him that he's not going to be his dad. 

So he's not really sure what to do when Billy says, "He threw me into the coffee table," with a shaky voice, and follows it with, "My hand caught the vase when I was... when I was leaving. He grabbed me, and he had my keys, so I just..." Billy clears his throat. "Yeah, I walked."

Walked, without a coat or even a jacket through a Midwestern January, covered in blood and injured, after dark. Steve can't break down, though, this isn't like when Billy had been missing for a week because the fucking government came in and took him. Billy needs him to hold it together, needs him to pull through, because they can't _both_ fall apart and Billy looks like he's one wrong word away from just shattering to pieces.

"Okay," Steve says, biting back a thousand words and curses aimed at Neil Hargrove. "Okay, let's... let's get you into warm clothes, and we'll get you cleaned up. Okay?" He's saying 'okay' too much. Saying okay too much will definitely make it not okay. Steve's got to hold it together, fuck. 

Billy goes easy when Steve pulls him farther into the room and leads him around the giant puddle of mimosa on his floor. He doesn't protest when Steve gently pushes him to sit on the bed - he's pliant, like he's too damn tired to get angry. Steve presses a kiss to his forehead when he starts to step away to go get clothes from the drawers that have become Billy's, now actually filled with clothes that Billy's brought over and not just what Steve's designated as his. 

He doesn't get far though, because Billy grabs his arm and drags him back, pulls at him until Steve's really got no choice but to climb up onto Billy's lap, straddling his legs carefully. Billy's arms come around his waist, tight and clinging, and he buries his face in Steve's shoulder. 

"Just-" Billy starts, muffled in Steve's shirt. "Like this, just for a minute." He's shaking, Steve realizes, fine tremors through his body. They're not shivers, even though he's got to be freezing, and Steve brings a hand up to curl his fingers in the damp chill of Billy's hair as though he can press him even closer into Steve's body. "Just for a minute, Stevie." 

Steve gives in a little to the urge to break down, rests his cheek on Billy's hair and closes his eyes to breathe in and out again in specific, controlled increments. He can feel Billy's breath hitching, knows that his shirt is getting wet where Billy's face is hidden, just like he knows the alcohol is staining his carpet and Billy's probably getting blood and January sleet on the blanket. All of it can be washed or cleaned or covered up if he needs it to be. 

"I don't wanna be him," Billy says in a fierce, broken little whisper into the dampening fabric of Steve's shirt. "I don't wanna be him, Stevie, don't let me be him."

Steve swallows. He curls a hand around the back of Billy's neck, like he's warding the chill of Billy's skin off with his own. "You're not gonna be." He hears a soft sound, and opens his eyes, shifting just enough to see the bedroom door being pulled close again as Robin vanishes once more. "You're not gonna be your dad, and I'm not gonna be mine, remember?"

Billy's voice is rough when he says, "We're gonna be better than them." 

"We're gonna be better," Steve agrees. He's been thinking about it since Billy said it the first time, even if they haven't talked about it, not really. Even if these are the only moments that they really share these vulnerabilities, and the rest is kisses and studying and pretending they're not dating out in the real world with everyone else. It feels like a promise, though, more than anything else has since Billy started showing up. It feels like a goal, like something Steve can work for. So he says it again, just as soft and broken and _fierce_ as Billy was, is, will always be. "We're gonna be better."

It takes a while for Billy to stop shaking, but Robin makes a second entrance and Billy snarks at her like he's not covered in blood and sporting a black eye he's probably had for two days now. She throws some towels down over the mimosa stain and makes another pitcher while Steve cleans Billy's scratches with peroxide and wraps his knuckles, gets Billy into clean clothes. Somehow the night goes from just Steve-and-Robin to Steve-and-Robin-and-Billy, with Billy on the floor in front of Robin with two glasses in his hand while Robin carefully, drunkenly braids his hair from her perch on the bed. 

You gotta take the good where you can find it, Steve thinks while he's lying in Billy's lap, listening as Robin tries not to giggle and Billy bitches good-naturedly about her pulling his hair, trying to talk her through the complicated braid that Max likes. And like, if 1986 has to start one way or another, at least it can start like this, with two people that Steve loves and surrounded by safety and warmth. 

"Fuck 1985," he mumbles into Billy's leg, and grins when Billy pats his head fondly, telling him to go to sleep, that Billy will get him into bed when it's time.


	6. maybe we can take some time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> February, 1986

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a chapter with some cheesy romance, with Steve's abandonment and self-esteem providing a backing vocal.

Steve rents more romantic movies out in the second week of February than he's ever seen in his life. He also rents more porn out than he's really comfortable with, but the video store has a back room and he's not supposed to ask any questions other than, "Do you have your ID?" so that becomes pretty par for the course too. It's not that he's _uncomfortable_ , exactly, it's just that he doesn't exactly like looking people in the eye at the same time he's wondering what the holy fuck is happening with that VHS cover. 

He thinks he's growing on Keith, a little bit, bonding over the weird 70s shit that people are renting to try and get lucky on the days leading up to Valentine's Day. Or at least, the other day Keith said that Steve was, "Less of a douchebag than I originally thought, Harrington," right before he said, "You know, they're making a third _The Devil in Miss Jones_ movie," supposedly just to watch Steve make the same grimace he's wearing at the mention of the movie.

The point is that Steve rents out all the copies of _The Competition,_ has to tell one disappointed couple that _Somewhere in Time_ and _Kiss Me Goodbye_ have both already been checked out, and discovers that one of the store VHS copies of _Flashdance_ has been replaced by a copy of _Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan_. He only learns about it after the couple angrily brings it back.

"I mean, I think there's a good argument for a love affair between Spock and Captain Kirk," Robin says with a shrug after the couple has left with their free rental coupon and a legitimate copy of _Flashdance_. 

Steve stares at her for a moment. She's looking at him expectantly, still sweeping the broom slowly, like he's supposed to know what she just meant. "I don't know who those people are, Robin," he finally says, and puts _The Wrath of Khan_ in the to-be-shelved pile without a case. When he turns back around, she's still looking at him.

"Don't take this the wrong way," she starts, and ignores the loud, annoyed groan he gives in response, just raising her voice to be heard over him. "But you're pissy tonight. You've been pissy all week."

She's right. Steve knows she's right. But Steve's never been known for his _maturity_ , after all, and says in a high-pitched bastardization of Robin's voice, "Oh, Steve, you're upset! Is something bothering you, Steve? You wanna talk about it, Steve?"

"Oh, Steve, you're upset," Robin deadpans in response, and stops sweeping altogether. For a moment, Steve wonders if she's going to hit him with the broom. "Is something bothering you, Steve. You wanna talk about it, Steve."

And well. Now Steve kind of wants to smile, which he suspects might have been her goal. "Thank you _so much_ for asking, Robin," he says, and checks another movie in. "No, I don't wanna talk about it." Oh, now Steve's pretty sure that if he were in range, she would _actually_ hit him with the broom.

Instead of launching it at him like a spear - which she's done before - she just blows out a huge, dramatic breath. "Oh- _kay,_ how about I guess instead?"

"No, thank you," Steve says quickly. He doesn't need a greatest hits compilation of All the Things in the World that Bother Steve. Spoiler, he knows all of them, even the ones that don't make it on the list because he's too good at pretending to be cool about it. 

It should be known, though, that Steve's stubborn but Robin is as hard-headed as they come, would probably give Billy a run for his money. "Too late," she says. "Is it the fact that you're working on a Friday night, the fact that you're working on Valentine's Day, or the fact that you're working on a Friday night that also happens to be Valentine's Day?"

"None of the above," Steve says, and gives up trying to check in movies. They close in ten minutes anyway, he might as well just leave them for Keith in the morning. "You're not going to guess it, Rob."

"If you didn't want me to, you'd tell me to fuck off."

It's got to suck at one point, being right all the time. Or at least that's what Steve's telling himself. 

"Okay, so if it's not that, it's probably the fact that you've gotten, what. One Valentine?" Robin looks at him with that knowing expression. She saw him over the summer, after all, so she knows exactly how he felt when he was striking out with every girl who even looked his way. "Steve, you know it doesn't-"

"That's not it, either," Steve says. He grabs the keys and goes to lock the door. It's five minutes before they technically close, but fuck it, whatever. He just wants to go home. February is gray and slushy, and it sucks. He's ready for spring. Has been ready for spring since, like, October.

When he comes back, Robin's still watching him. "It's _really_ bothering you," she says. She looks a little concerned. "Like, whatever it is. It's-"

"Bothering me? _Yes_ ," Steve snaps, and then immediately feels a little guilty about it. "So let's talk about something else. Like Heather, how's Heather?"

Robin leans the broom up against the counter. "Still in the midst of a bisexuality crisis following her return to the land of the living, which means she mostly just wants to make out and _experiment_ , but that's fine and also not news. _Steve_."

" _What_."

"Steve." Robin yanks the keys out of his hand, where he's been pressing the ridges of one against his fingertips unconsciously, letting the sensation lightly distract him. He rolls his eyes but looks at her. "If it's bugging you _this much_ , you should talk about it." 

Again, Steve thinks it has to suck, somewhere along the line, to be right about every single thing. He should just know to listen to Robin, honestly. He chews on his lip a little, looks away from her and down at the chipped counter top, uses his nail to pick at a little bit of tape left over from a sign or something. He wants to fiddle with the metal feather that's around his neck, necklace hidden under his shirt like it always is these days. Stupid.

"Billy's gotten a lot of, uh. Cards. And offers," he finally admits. He hears the little sound of realization that Robin makes. "From, like, Vicki Carmichael and Laurie McCormick and Ally Meyer, and other girls. It's just that." Steve blows out a breath, feels the metal of the feather against his chest. "He doesn't _need_ me, you know? There's something better out there for him, he doesn't need to be stuck in fucking Hawkins with _me_."

He's not sure what he expects from her. Maybe something encouraging or placating that will just slide off of him. Instead, Steve gets Robin leaning her chin on her hand with a knowing look and, "Have you asked him?"

Steve scoffs, disbelieving. "Yeah, Robin, let me just walk up to Billy Hargrove and ask him if he _needs_ me the way I need him."

"No, don't ask him _that_ ," Robin says patiently. "Ask _him_ what he wants, dumbass, if he _wants_ to be 'stuck in fucking Hawkins' with you."

His mouth is dry. The cover of _Flashdance_ is staring up at him, case empty because someone stole it and replaced it with fucking _Star Trek_. "Listen, I may be the village idiot but even I know that you don't ask questions you don't want to know the answer to," he says, picking at the tape. It won't come up, he's gonna need a scraper or something. "He knows he's got options, I know he's got options. I don't need a reminder."

They work through the closing quickly. Robin's got a not-date with Heather Holloway, after all, and Steve's got a whole night to sit in his big empty house and hope Billy shows up. He'll probably listen to music - Max wasn't the only one who got a CD player for Christmas, after all, though she got a collection of pop music to go with her Sony Discman, while Steve got three Fleetwood Mac albums because Billy says they "sound like you, Stevie, like if someone put your soul into a CD or something."

He's actually really into _Rumours_. 

Robin keeps trying to talk to him, but Steve hits his limit and tunes it out as they go through all the motions of closing the store down for the night. She finally gives up, settling for telling him to at least try to have a good night and not to pick a fight just to force a change, and something about communication that Steve is sure is solid advice. Right now, though, it's literally bouncing off of him - he can't process it. 

When he gets home, the light in his bedroom is on. The knot of tension in his chest unfurls when he sees it, because this means that Billy didn't take any of the other options. Billy chose him. 

Billy's been venturing out of Steve's room and beyond the upstairs more and more - Steve's come home to Billy cooking a couple of times now, even if Billy keeps coming in the window instead of the front door like he doesn't have the key Steve gave him right next to the key to his Camaro on his keyring. He definitely came out of Steve's room today, because as soon as Steve hits the staircase up to his bedroom, he notices a trail of rose petals.

He rolls his eyes, even if he can't fight the little grin that's starting to curl his lips up. He follows the rose petals that, surprise of surprises, lead directly to his closed bedroom door. The door is cracked, and when he pushes it open, he finds even more rose petals, leading from the open door, across the rug he dragged in from the guest room to hide the mimosa stain, to, of course, the bed. 

Billy's waiting for him there. He's wearing nothing but a rose between his teeth in a winning smile, and he's holding a heart-shaped box of chocolates strategically in front of his dick. There are three candles lit on the nightstand, and a card in an envelope with Steve's name written in Billy's neat, slanted scrawl. 

Steve's so in love with Billy that it hurts sometimes. He pushes it down in favor of giving into the smile that's threatening to overwhelm him anyway and climbs onto the bed to pluck the rose out of Billy's mouth. "You're ridiculous, oh my god. What _is_ this?"

"I have been reliably informed that _this_ is the height of romance," Billy replies. He drags Steve down into a kiss by the collar of his work shirt. "I didn't tell Max about the fucking part, though. That's my own addition."

Steve of last summer would have been appalled, he thinks, but Steve of February, 1986, is more than a little in love with how crude Billy can be sometimes. It might have something to do with how soft Billy looks in the glow of the lamp on the nightstand. The candles flicker, and make him look even more golden. "I assumed. There _is_ the no-talking-about-the-kids-in-bed rule. Which I'm bringing up so you don't mention Max again."

"Good point. We got better things to do." Billy shoves the chocolates at Steve's chest. "Look, I have motherfucking _candy_. I have a motherfucking _flower_." He lifts Steve's arm for him as if to show him the rose in his hand, and then waves a hand toward the jar candles on the night stand. "I have motherfucking _candles_ , and a motherfucking _card_." 

By the end of it, Steve's laughing, sitting back on the bed to pry open the box of chocolates. "You already ate the nougat! _And_ the turtles, oh my god. Did you take a bite out of this one?" He picks it up and looks at it, then pops it into his mouth and says around it, "Oh, it's cherry, that's why."

"Baby," Billy says, sprawling back on the bed beside Steve and reaching for a chocolate. "I love you so much, but not enough to leave you the nougat or the turtles."

Oh _holy fuck._ Steve's brain stutters over that, and the world grinds to a halt. All of a sudden, he can't breathe. Like, actually, honest-to-god _can't_ breathe. He panics and smacks at Billy's arm as he chokes on the cherry truffle. Billy swears and rolls off the bed, yanking Steve up and getting his arms around the middle of Steve's waist. When the truffle goes flying out of his mouth, onto the blankets accusingly, Steve coughs, sucking in air while Billy pats his back. 

"Okay, I think we've had enough romance for now," Billy says, maneuvering Steve into a sitting position on his own bed. "You need a drink, you want me to get you a drink?" Steve nods, still coughing, and Billy grabs his underwear off the floor on his side of the bed before striding out of the room. 

Billy has a side of the bed that he sleeps on in Steve's bed. There's a book on the nightstand on that side, with dog-eared pages and napkin folded in half sticking out as a bookmark. It's _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , because it's one of Billy's favorites and Steve likes to listen to Billy read to him. There are two more books in that series and a prequel. Billy has a side of the bed, and Billy has his favorite book that he reads to Steve, and Billy said he loves Steve.

 _Billy said he loves Steve_.

The thought bounces around his head for the time it takes for Billy to make it back into the room with the cup from the bathroom down the hall halfway full of water. He's got his boxer briefs on, Steve notices kind of distantly. The whole world is a little distant from him right now.

"Stevie," Billy's saying. Steve blinks, and Billy's squatting down in front of him, hand over where Steve is holding the cup like he's afraid Steve's going to drop it. "Babe, you're here. You're safe. Just me, and I'm not going anywhere." It's what he says now, when Steve has panic attacks. They're the words that usually work. 

This time, though, the panic is from somewhere else. "You said." Steve feels like he might actually drop the water. Luckily, Billy chooses that moment to take it from him and put it on the nightstand. "You said you loved me."

Billy stares up at him for a minute, hands braced on Steve's legs now that he's not holding the water steady. It's a long minute, and Steve's terrified, heart-stoppingly afraid that he's going to immediately say that he didn't mean it, or that he lied. That it was a throwaway comment, or that he's just passing time with Steve until something or someone better comes along.

But Billy says, "You mean you didn't fucking _know_?" like he can't believe it, like it's something Steve should know as well as his own middle name or the map of the freckles across Billy's shoulders. Like it should be some kind of muscle memory - Steve inhales and Billy loves him, Steve exhales and Billy loves him.

"No," Steve whispers. His throat is burning from choking on that stupid cherry truffle, and maybe from just the sheer amount of emotion that's running through him. Billy loves him. Billy _loves_ him. "Why would you... I don't..."

Billy's face closes off, shutters, just like that. "You don't."

 _No,_ no, that's _not_ what Steve meant. "I love you," he says quickly, with feeling and emphasis, hands folding over Billy's on his legs. Soft and broken and fierce. "I love you, I _love_ _you_ , Billy, I just don't understand why..." He stops, bites at his lip, and looks past Billy at the rose petals on the floor. "You got a-a card from Laurie McCormick, and she's going to vet school. Vicki Charmichael's gonna be a nurse, Ally Meyer's already got a full-ride to... to a college in fucking Colorado, how is it _me_?" He feels like he's fucking talking Billy out of this now, like it's not exactly what he wants. "You're, you're smart and you're gorgeous, you can do _better_ , you have options that aren't..."

Billy's still looking up at Steve, still bracing his hands on Steve's thighs. He's got that look on his face though, that 'come hell or high water' expression, how dare the world get in his way. There's a breath where Steve searches Billy's face for an answer he's not sure he wants.

Then Billy surges up, knocking Steve back onto the bed and shoving him up until Billy can climb on top of him. The weight of him settles on Steve's abdomen, and Billy gets his fingers in the collar of Steve's shirt, yanking him up. Steve doesn't have time for more than a startled yelp, hands scrambling for Billy's hips automatically. The kiss is deep, surprisingly slow, familiar in a way that melts Steve's spine. 

Steve's breathless when Billy pulls away, shoves him back down onto the bed. "Fuck vet school," he says, and bites his way down Steve's neck. "Fuck Vicki Carmichael, fuck Colorado, I want _you_." Billy yanks Steve's shirt up, trying to get his hands underneath. "I want _you_ , Stevie, _I love you_." He stops when he can't get Steve's shirt up, settles for getting his hands on Steve's face and making sure Steve's looking at him. "I don't do romance, but I want to for _you_ , okay? I want to be a better man than my father because _you deserve_ a better man than my father." 

Billy has a side of the bed, and his favorite book lives on the nightstand. Half of Steve's dresser drawers aren't just for pajamas anymore, but multiple drawers, now, with jeans and t-shirts that Billy's brought over. There are shirts hanging in Steve's closet that are his, jewelry and cologne on the dresser that Billy wears and Steve doesn't. Steve's wearing a necklace that he got for Billy that Billy gave _back_ , wears it every day and Billy knows he does, blue eyes going bright when he sees it -

Oh. _Oh._

"Show me," he chokes out. "Tell me, Billy, please, I-"

Steve inhales, and _Billy loves him_.

"Yeah, Stevie," Billy says, and kisses him again. Slow this time, like they've got forever and a day. "I love you."

Steve exhales, and _Billy loves him._


	7. conversations that my mind won't even let me hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Billy have a discussion about coming out, Billy's father, and more. Also, it's Billy's birthday.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gave me fits. I tried to settle on something soft and kind of sweet, and ended up with an intense, healthy discussion about coming out of the closet, and Neil Hargrove being a homophobic, abusive asshole. 
> 
> The response to this fic has been amazing, I'm surprised so many people are enjoying this little cathartic id-fic of mine! Sorry this is still so Steve-centric. I tried to keep the hurt/comfort even, but ah well, relationships aren't split 50/50 anyway. I'm really enjoying working through Steve's PTSD - I have some pretty intimate experience with it, so it's surprisingly cathartic.
> 
> What are ages? They're stupid, that's what. Please ignore how I didn't stick to canon at all. Steve is twenty, Billy is turning nineteen. The writers didn't give them birthdays, so I did. These are my characters now, and I will fight for them. Please excuse any historical inaccuracies, I was not actually alive in the 80s.
> 
> Please take a look at the additional tags added for these parts! 

_March, 1986_

There's a saying that Steve learned when he was little, about March and lions and lambs. He doesn't know where it comes from, but he remembers this - if March comes in like a lion, it will go out like a lamb. If March comes in like a lamb, it will go out like a lion. It's an old wives' tale thing, the kind of shit that people say just because they've always said it. He's been through plenty of Marches that came in and went out the same way. All that matters this year is that March has come in like a lamb.

The weather warms slowly, creeping up on him. The world is thawing around him, goes a pale green as the days go on instead of the dull gray of winter. He feels like he can breathe, even if it's still a little chilly in the mornings, because the sun is shining more often than it isn't, and the rain is much more tolerable than the sleet and the snow. It's not going to be summer-warm for a long while yet, but even now, Steve feels like he's coming out of hibernation, even if he needs a jacket still.

Some days are even warm enough he can leave the bedroom window open, not just unlocked. He feels... better. Like the coming of spring has fixed whatever's wrong in Steve's brain that makes him think the shadows are out to get him or that there's a monster around every corner. He can smile and laugh, and it doesn't feel _fake_ when the sun shines. It doesn't feel like he has to force it, work too hard for too long to feel just 'okay.'

He cleans, deeper than he has all winter. He does more than one single "survival" load of laundry, washes the sheets on the bed, vacuums downstairs. The maid doesn't come anymore, which Steve's heard from his mother is his father's doing, but that's fine. It gives him something to do now that he doesn't need to dedicate every other minute to struggling through homework and reminding himself that he's alive, he's safe, the monsters are gone.

Spring break comes with all the fanfare that a super senior can muster up - which is to say that Steve is grateful for the break, but antsy to get this year over with for the second time. He likes sleeping in, especially now that he wakes up with Billy more often than he wakes up alone. He likes staying up late again, because he's not trying to exhaust himself so that he won't dream. Instead, he wants to stay up because he likes how Billy looks when he's all soft and tired in the lamp's glow, cross-legged on the bed with a book in his hand. They're almost done with the first Tolkein book, and sometimes Billy has to go back a couple pages when they start again at night because Steve likes to fall asleep to the cadence of Billy's voice.

There's a part of him that's nervous, that thinks he might be getting a little too used this - to falling asleep with Billy pressed to his front or waking up trapped under Billy's comforting weight. When Billy's gone, Steve has nightmares. Not about monsters or being tied up in the tunnels, but instead about Billy looking at him with cold blue eyes, and telling him he's bullshit. 

It doesn't make sense. Billy wouldn't do that - Billy doesn't pretend for shit, he's here because he _wants_ to be. Has told Steve that in twenty different ways, has shown him in a hundred. The fear isn't rational in the slightest, but it's there nonetheless. It's hard coming from the thaw of an emotional winter, difficult letting himself grow new buds and enjoy the warmth again.

Some days it's easier than others, though. 

"Alright, where's my present?" Billy demands when he gets through the window. He looks good, if a little disheveled. No visible bruises, because he's been spending almost every minute that he can with Steve, away from his dad. He always looks lighter when he can laze around Steve's house or Steve's pool or even the arcade without worrying about going home. Steve wants to make him look that carefree all the time.

This is a good start, Steve thinks. "What present? Who said you get a present?" he asks, fighting a smile as he folds the laundry on the bed. It's been building up, so there's a lot of it - Steve is three loads in, and the piles of folded clothes are getting precarious. 

"My _birthday_ present, Stevie." Billy drapes his denim jacket across the back of the desk chair and sits down to start pulling his boots off. "I know you've got one, so you should just give it to me now."

"It's not your birthday yet." He folds a Black Sabbath shirt and thinks about the Ozzy tickets he's got hidden in a shoebox in the closet. It's stashed behind other shoeboxes that actually contain shoes, and he's _pretty sure_ that Billy won't be able to find it. 

Steve's not an Ozzy fan, at all, but he is a fan of seeing Billy's eyes light up when he's singing along with "Shot in the Dark," so it'll be worth it to see him at the actual show. Driving to an Indianapolis record store without Billy knowing, going to drive _back_ for the actual show, the hotel Steve booked for them - all of that will be worth it too. 

"It's close enough." Billy straightens up, slides up behind Steve and nuzzles his nose into his neck. He presses a kiss just below Steve's ear before he pulls away, grabbing a clean shirt out of the basket to fold it. "It'll be my birthday at midnight. So you should just give me my present now."

"Nope, you can have it tomorrow. If you find it, I'll take it back." He wouldn't really, of course. He doesn't even think you can return concert tickets. To be honest, he's tempted to give in and hand them over, just to see the way that Billy's face will brighten with excitement, and then go soft as he leans in for a kiss. 

Sometimes, Steve looks at Billy, and he thinks that his heart will burst from everything that he _feels_ , how much he wants to keep that smile on Billy's face, what he would do to make sure Billy was safe. It's a lot, paralyzing in a way that it never was with Nancy. More and more, he's thinking that maybe he should have known that Nancy wasn't the real deal for him. Or maybe he's just older now. Whatever it is, he didn't feel this way, didn't have this knowledge that losing Billy would leave a scar that would never, ever heal.

"Hey." 

Steve blinks. Billy's just finishing up the last shirt in the basket, looking at Steve with that gentle concern he wears sometimes. It's a peek past the mask, a long way from the guarded smiles of only a few months ago. "Sorry," Steve says, automatic, just like he always does when he checks out for a minute. "I got... lost."

"Well, come the fuck back." Billy's smiling when he speaks, though, says it without heat and with those little crinkles at the corners of his eyes. Soft, so soft that Steve wants to cry about it.

He might actually cry. He's been doing that lately, randomly tearing up for no good reason. Like all of the feelings that he's bottled up over the last couple of years have started to overflow, in the way that the rivers do when they unfreeze. He's emotional, a little volatile with just how _much_ everything is sometimes. Billy takes it in stride pretty well, presses kisses to Steve's cheeks and rubs the back of his neck until Steve works through whatever wave of emotion has suddenly hit him. 

Billy does it too. He doesn't cry, but he goes _distant_ sometimes, checks out and flinches away from Steve. Where Steve needs Billy to hold him close and bring him back, Billy needs space when he gets a little lost, needs Steve to guide him back to the moment with his words instead of his hands. 

"You want clear the bed and take a nap?" Billy offers, swipes his fingers at a strand of Steve's hair. He hasn't fixed it yet today, so it's soft, slips through Billy's fingers like silk. "We don't have anywhere to be."

Which. That's not completely true. "Actually," Steve says, a little pit of anxiety unfurling in his chest. "We do."

There's a beat, and then Billy's mouth works through a complicated series of exercises in tandem with his eyebrows. "Alright, who planned it?" He seems to have finally settled on a smile, albeit one that's a little strained. "Whose ass am I kicking for this?"

"We're just going to watch the kids," Steve tries, but the jig is up, Billy knows. Steve knows that Billy knows. So he caves, because of course he does. "Max! It's Max's fault. I wasn't allowed to plan anything because they thought I'd tell you, so I just found out, like, yesterday."

Billy groans, looks like he's stuck somewhere between annoyed and reluctantly pleased. Steve's never seen his face _make_ that expression before. It's a little hilarious. "Crap," he says. "She'll kick _my_ ass if I try to kick hers." 

Which, yeah, that's fair. She will. Mostly because Billy's half-hearted about his headlocks these days, gives her way too many openings for it to be a real fight. Rough-housing, Steve thinks, without the malice that used to be there. Billy confessed to him once that it's a lot like it used to be, back in California, when Max was younger. 

"I told her I didn't want a party," Billy says, and drops his head onto Steve's shoulder. "Whatever. It's her world, I guess, we're just living in it."

Steve lifts a hand, runs his fingers through Billy's hair. It's always soft, Billy doesn't use nearly as much hairspray as Steve does. It's growing out, long enough that Billy can tie it back if he wants. He does, sometimes, and it drives Steve a little crazy in a way that he never expected, makes him want to pull it out of the band and mess it up. "There will be presents," he says. "And cake, I think. The kids are excited about the cake."

There's a snort from the vicinity of Steve's shoulder. "Yeah, but sitting still with a piece of cake is the perfect time for Baby Byers to swoop in."

Also true. Will's getting bolder every day, looks at them like he's holding back questions. He's about as subtle as brick to the face, but Steve hasn't been able to figure out exactly how to start that conversation. Besides, Will seems to be focused on Billy, not Steve, as the subject of all the questions he hasn't worked up the courage to ask. 

What Steve _should_ say is something like, "We'll keep him busy," or even something like, "Send him to me when he gets brave enough to talk about it" He should be supportive. He shouldn't push. Billy doesn't want to talk about it with Will, Billy doesn't _have_ to talk about it with Will. Or anyone, for that matter.

However, Steve's mouth and Steve's brain don't always agree, so what he ends up saying is, "We could come out." 

Billy goes stiff against Steve's shoulder. Hell, even Steve goes stiff, had no idea that the thoughts he'd been kind of having here and there lately would choose right now, this minute of all minutes, to make themselves known aloud. Steve can't even wrap his brain around an apology, he's shocked _himself_ so much. 

But then Billy pulls away. Well, not really away, just back, slow, and looks up that whole inch that Steve's got on him with wide blue eyes. "Christ," Billy says, in that quiet way that tells Steve he didn't actually mean to say it out loud. That's one of Billy's filler-words, something he mutters when he needs to say _something_ because the silence is getting to him. Slips out of him more often than anything else, Steve's learned. "Well, fuck, Steve, I guess we _could_."

There's a ball of anxiety in Steve's chest, but he's trying not to give into too much when Billy's not even completely pulled away from him yet. Because Billy _isn't_. Billy's still got his hand on Steve's waist, curled into the fabric of the t-shirt that Steve's wearing, is still close enough that Steve hasn't pulled his own hand back yet. There isn't distance between them right now, not really - just Billy, looking up at Steve with a slightly bewildered, very surprised expression.

"I don't want to push." 

The words fall out of Steve in a rush. They always do when Billy looks at him, open and waiting. It's so strange, being able to open his mouth and say exactly what he's thinking without having to worry about sounding like an idiot. That's not a feeling he's used to, at all, and apparently it's having the unfortunate effect of Steve not thinking before words just come, unbidden, from his mouth. He already didn't do a lot of thinking before he spoke, now there's just like a direct line between Billy's eyes and Steve's brain, and his tongue is just the messenger. 

But once he starts, he can't exactly stop. "I know what would happen if your dad found out." Steve says it quietly, barely above a whisper. "I don't... I can't be the reason that you get _hurt_ , I didn't mean to - we don't _have to_ , I don't want to..." 

Turns out he _can_ stop, when the words start tripping over themselves because there are things he doesn't want to admit to, even in the privacy of his own mind, just yet. They only _just_ started talking about Billy's dad in words that are more concrete than allusions, Billy's only recently opened up in the last couple of months about Neil catching wind of who Billy hung out with in Cali, about just how much his father hates that "lifestyle," all the words his father uses to describe "people like _that_."

People like Billy, people like Steve, people like Robin.

Steve doesn't want to be the reason that Billy's father hits him, ever. 

"Stevie," Billy sighs. He lifts a hand and taps Steve's cheek with a quick finger. "You're _never_ gonna be the reason. Okay? He doesn't..." There's a pause, and he swallows, glances down for a second. When he lifts his gaze again, there's something _hard_ there, sad and knowing, that puts a line in his brow. "He doesn't _need_ a reason, babe." 

It's true. Steve knows it. His dad never hit him, but Steve knows what it's like to just be in the wrong place at the wrong time. He learned a long time ago that to exist in the same room as his father is to wear a target on his forehead, and he imagines that it's got to be worse for Billy. 

Steve's about to open his mouth again, about to let the apologies out, but Billy beats him to speaking.

"I want to." It's soft, secretive. Billy's looking down again, away from Steve. "I don't... they know about Robin and Heather, so I know they wouldn't... and Baby Byers is _not subtle_ , like, at all. Max already knows. I think they... I think they _all_ already know." 

"We're not exactly subtle either," Steve replies, and is rewarded with an amused huff from Billy. 

It's not the kind of conversation that Steve ever expected to have in the middle of the day while folding laundry on the bed. He'd always imagined that talking about this would be dramatic, or that eventually the decision would be made for them by someone who saw one thing too many. As it is, the whole thing feels monumental in its simplicity, a big decision being made in the midst of something inane and small. Something extraordinary in the everyday. 

"We really, _really_ aren't." Billy looks back up, taps his finger on Steve's cheek gently. It's a nervous tell, Steve's figured out, that little movement. He taps when he wants a cigarette, and Steve won't let him smoke in the house. Billy wants a cigarette when he's thinking, or when he's nervous, wants something to do with his hands even if he doesn't actually smoke the damn thing. "You whistled at me at the arcade."

"In my defense, your ass looked great, and I forgot we were in public."

Finally, Billy's mouth turns up into a grin again. Quick, there and gone again, but Steve sees it. "Stevie, my ass always looks great."

"I _know_ ," Steve mock-groans. He's still anxious, but it's back to the baseline anxiety he always exists at. Billy's not about to yell at him, isn't about to disappear out the window never to be seen again. In all honesty, Steve's worrying about that less and less as the weeks go on. "The Pope called, they want to make me a saint because I haven't jumped you in public yet. They said I'm _clearly_ the most patient person alive, in the history of the world, ever."

"Weird," Billy says, obvious lechery in his voice. "They offered to make _me_ a saint, too, but I didn't get the message until _after_ I blew you in the back office at the video store."

That had been a very good night at work. Thankfully, it had also been a very slow night, and Robin had gotten distracted by Heather coming in to rent a movie. The opportunity had been too good to pass up, and Steve's never had great impulse control. He's not about to start now, especially when Billy's involved. 

Billy licks his lip, expression gone serious again. "I don't want him to hurt _you._ If it got to him, he'd beat the shit out of me, yeah, but... he'd also go after you." His thumb skates over the flush that Steve knows is on his cheeks from the mention of their little _adventure_ in the video store. Then, quiet and rough, he adds, "I think I'd kill him if he tried, Stevie." 

That's... Steve doesn't know what to say to that. It's a lot to unpack, a lot to admit. Robin had mentioned it once, the idea that letting people wonder was fine, but confirming it just made it too real for them. He imagines this is along those lines for Billy - Steve doesn't have a lot to lose anymore, is already expecting to be cut off from his father's money and tossed out of this house at any given moment. But Billy... Billy could get hurt. Billy could hurt someone _else_. For Steve. 

But then Billy says, "I want to, I want to... to hold your fucking hand in front of fucking _Nancy_ and kiss you just to gross the kids out and... and fucking _cuddle_ on movie nights, what the fuck." He drops his head back to Steve's shoulder, like he's hiding, and Steve can't fight the smile that's threatening to split across his face. "I've never wanted to-to fucking _cuddle_ anyone like I want to cuddle you. I'm not a _cuddler_ , Harrington, what did you do to me?" 

"It's my irresistible charm." He turns his face, says it into Billy's hair. "We don't have to. We can wait, I didn't even think before I said it."

"It's my fucking birthday, and I want to come out of the closet to all of our dumb friends tomorrow so I can kiss you and make bad jokes in front of them," Billy says to Steve's shirt, and well. 

That's that.


	8. everything here's black and white

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin drops a bombshell, and Steve has feelings about what that means for him and Billy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, I abused the heck out of some italics in this one.
> 
> I warned y'all this was self-indulgent, don't @ me.
> 
> We got two more chapters after this one to tie everything up!

_April, 1986_

Robin tells Steve about New York one Friday night in mid-April. She says it hesitantly, quietly, like she's afraid of the reaction she's going to get. It feels... 

Shit, Steve doesn't know what it feels like. 

Something similar to a break-up, maybe, or finding out that your girlfriend is going to college and you _aren't_. Not as harsh as "bullshit," because Steve isn't in romantic love with Robin, but almost worst because of it. Robin is his best friend, Robin is someone who's helped keep him going in the past year, Robin is a _constant_.

So, like. "Bad" is probably a good umbrella term for it.

It should be noted that Steve doesn't do well with change. Steve's pretty sure _everyone_ knows by now that he doesn't do well with change. Well, everyone who knows him, anyway. People who don't know him have compared Steve to a jellyfish before, floating along the waves of life, unflappable and kind of squishy. Stings like a bitch if you step on him wrong.

Obviously, he's lost the metaphor here. It still applies.

"It's not set in stone," Robin is saying when the rush of his heartbeat dies down enough he can actually hear her talk again. "It's just, like, an idea we had that kind of... took off a lot more than either of us thought it would. We're not even sure everything is going to work out enough to actually go."

Steve can understand getting wrapped up in the possibilities. The idea of California is tempting. The anonymity of a crowded beach in Santa Cruz calls to him like a siren's song in the wind, the thought that he could go somewhere and simply be lost among everyone else, that people might not even look twice at him holding Billy's hand... He wants it. Badly. Not to mention, the Upside-Down doesn't seem to exist outside of Hawkins. Maybe if he runs far enough away, crosses a few state lines to go stand at the edge of the ocean, the monsters won't be able to reach him when the gate opens again.

But Billy hasn't asked him to leave for California when they finally graduate in only a few weeks. Steve kind of thought it might be a conversation they had on the drive to or from Indianapolis to see Ozzy, maybe between the hotel sheets. It didn't happen, though, and Steve hasn't been able to work up the courage to bring up the conversation himself. He's's been sitting on the idea of running away for longer than Robin and Heather. Since Billy came back from wherever the government took him, before he told Steve he loved him.

He's never actually said as much out loud. Not to Robin or Billy or Nancy, not to anyone. It feels like it would jinx it all somehow. Hell, he panicked when Joyce Byers asked him what he was thinking about doing after graduation, because he has _plans_ but he thinks he might be the only one making them now.

"Why New York?" he finally says, realizing that he has to say _something._ Robin's watching him. It's not... Steve's not _mad_ , he's not even really upset in any true definition of the word. He _wants_ Robin and Heather to go live their best lesbian lives together, far away from the prying eyes of Robin's family and everyone else in Hawkins.

"Heather's got an aunt there." Robin picks at a string on her shirt. "She's really into the art community up there? And theater."

Steve scrunches his nose a little, thinking. "Like, Broadway?" He has a vague memory of his mother telling him about going to a show when he was younger, of showing him the Playbill even though he can't recall, now, what show it was.

The response he gets is a snort. "No, like. Off-Broadway. _Off_ -off-Broadway. But she's got a studio apartment and told Heather we can stay until we get on our feet up there." Robin knocks her shoulder into his. "So, like, a week for us to figure out where to put all of our sweet, sweet government hush money."

Steve's had that thought too. He's got the funds to leave now, and if he and Billy put what they had _together_ , then they'd be pretty good for a pretty decent amount of time. Long enough to get a place, settle into jobs. He doesn't know what the schools are like in California, but he knows that Billy would do well no matter what college he ended up in. Billy's smart, reads and writes and understands things like symbolism and can memorize, like, _dates_ and elements in chemistry and shit. 

Meanwhile, Steve's major accomplishment of his _second_ senior year is that he's reading on like a third grade level. On a good day.

Steve's not the kind of guy that's gonna go to college. He was already rejected by every single school he applied to. Even worse, Steve overheard Max at the arcade a couple of weeks ago telling Lucas about Billy sending in applications to California schools. Between Billy's birthday and the Ozzy show. He doesn't know if Billy's been accepted or not, because Billy hasn't _told him_. Billy didn't even tell him about applying, about how he was thinking about actually going off to school, and Steve doesn't...

Steve knows that it was only a matter of time. He's always known, really.

"I think it'll be good for you guys," he says, light, like the words don't taste sickly sweet and rotten on his tongue. It's a true statement, but that doesn't make it hurt any less to say it. "Are you still thinking about doing a psychology program at a school there, or...?"

And she's off, talking about this great plan she and Heather have come up with and the degree she wants to get and where she wants to study. Steve tries to be the good friend and focus on what she's saying, tries to will himself into feeling something _supportive_ instead of just... sad. He's figured out that one by one, his little circle of friends will leave him, because they're not stuck like he is. They have the prospects he doesn't, and now he can't even get a job in his dad's company. His dad's gonna have a _new_ kid soon, can forget all about his first, stupid son who grew up to be nothing but a disappointment.

Steve kind of zones out for the rest of his shift, goes through the motions. If someone were to ask him later to recall a single conversation he had after that specific one with Robin, he wouldn't be able to even tell them if he saw another person, if he had a customer, or even if he said good night to her as he walked her to Heather's car. He probably shouldn't be driving. Between one blink and another, though, he's officially in his driveway instead of wrapped around a tree.

So he's gonna count it as a win.

The April evening is light and airy. The wind is just brisk enough that it drags him back into reality, or at least somewhere adjacent to it, when he steps out of the car. His bedroom light is on, which is... he doesn't know. It should feel good, but right now he's just strangely numb. He feels prickly, too big for his skin, like it's stretched over his bones and muscles all wrong. He's not even sure he wants to see Billy tonight. It's weird - Steve pretty much _always_ wants to see Billy, would happily live the rest of his days in Billy's back pocket if he could, with the occasional visit to the kids or Robin.

Tonight, though, on the heels of the New York news, after being basically confronted with the fact that he's going to be the last one left in this stupid town when they all leave him behind to live their lives... Steve's not sure he wants to face that this might be the night that Billy tells him that he's leaving for California. 

Without Steve.

But at the same time, he _does_. He wants to soak up all the time with Billy that he can before it's over, wants to just exist with him for a little while and worry about the rest of his life when he's not fresh off a full day of high school and a shift at work. If Billy brings it up, maybe he can deflect or something tonight. Put it off until tomorrow morning.

Worse is the thought that Billy won't even tell him before he leaves at the end of the year. Maybe he'll just disappear one day, drive off into the west coast sunset without a goodbye. After all, his parents didn't always used tell him when they were leaving, so why would Billy? He wonders, standing and staring at the light coming from his own bedroom window, if he can somehow convince Billy to let him go, too. If he promises to work, maybe, if he tries to be... he doesn't know. Better, somehow. Smarter.

There's a part of him that thinks maybe Billy isn't leaving at all. Billy had said he loved Steve, that he wanted to be a better man than Neil _for_ Steve. There's a part that hopes, quietly and desperately, that Max was wrong. And then there's a bigger part that reminds Steve that Billy wasn't made for a town like Hawkins, is too big of a personality, is too _bright_ for a bullshit small-town life.

He remembers his mother telling him once when he was fifteen that she didn't even want to move to Hawkins. Her family was in Atlanta, and she hated being so far away from them. She told Steve then, while she was half-drunk and his dad was "working late" for the third night in a row, that she should have known not to follow a man like his father, that she should have listened when her mother told her not to hang all of her hopes on him.

The idea of Billy resenting him one day down the line, because he asked to go, is enough to make his heart squeeze tight in his chest. He doesn't want to end up like his mother, mixing alcohol and Valium to numb the world out while his relationship falls to pieces around him. He loves Billy, and maybe it would be best to just...

Let Billy go.

When Steve finally gets inside, it's just in time to hear the phone ring. He ignores it. The answering machine will get it, and he's too tired to deal with the kids or his mother or Nancy or, god forbid, _monsters_ tonight. The shower is running when he makes his way up the stairs, and Steve pauses just outside the bathroom door, takes a moment to entertain the idea of inviting himself into Billy's shower. Usually, he likes to catch Billy in the shower, even if Billy badgers him to wash his hair until Steve gives in with a fond, faux-put-upon sigh.

Tonight, trying to face that moment is hard to swallow around the lump in his throat. So instead, he heads into his room, starts going about stripping his uniform off and changing into something comfortable. And yeah, maybe he grabs one of Billy's shirts instead of his own, but unfortunately he's a big romantic. He can't _help_ it, okay, he falls in love and doesn't get over people very well. So he'll probably actually end up stealing this shirt, tucking it into the back of his closet so he has something more than the necklace when Billy goes, something Billy actually wore.

His eyes catch on the open window, then on the bag of fast food on his desk. He takes a little breath, feels a small smile pull at his mouth. It's a strange feeling, being so damn fond and heartbroken at the same time. Of course Billy brought him food. Billy always brings him food when he works evenings.

The window is letting in that chilly breeze, and Steve sees the envelope on the desk when he goes to close it, behind the bag of food. It's one of those big white ones, the kind that look official, and he recognizes Billy's name on the front of it. Up in the corner is postmark, and fancy stamp, and even if it takes Steve a long moment to wrap his brain around the words and put them all in order, he eventually works it out. University of San Francisco. 

It's already been opened.

He doesn't have to open it to know what it is. There's no college in the country that would refuse Billy's GPA, and he's got letters of recommendations from the guidance counselor and the English teacher, as a result of "turning himself around" this past year. Billy had heard about his essay when he'd heard Max talking, and he knows that Billy got a high score on the ACT. It's an acceptance letter, it has to be, and it's sitting on Steve's desk.

"Welcome home, Stevie," Billy calls as he walks in, towel around his waist. He half-closes the door behind him, until it just kind of stops on its own, and heads over to the dresser. He's humming something, clearly in a good mood.

Steve turns to close the window while he tries to will away the prick of tears behind his eyes. He doesn't actually manage to get the window closed, just pulls the curtains down so they blow a little and then has to stop. The drawers of the dresser close, and Steve turns again, back to Billy, takes in the sight of him pulling boxers and soft shorts on. He tracks the scars from the Mind-Flayer with his eyes, skates his gaze over the line of Billy's back, tries to commit it all to memory now. The way that Billy's shower-damp hair falls, the smattering of sun-kissed freckles across his shoulders, the play of the muscles of his arms as he pulls a shirt on, all of it.

"Steve?"

He blinks again, and when he does, Billy is looking at him. "Hey," he manages. "Yeah, hi."

Billy's brow is furrowed, his expression concerned, and he's a little closer than he was a second ago. "You okay, babe? Have a rough night or something? You were alright when we left school."

Steve licks his lip, plays with the little chapped part for a second. "I, um." Fuck, he doesn't want to be the one to start this conversation. But he can't just wait around for Billy to tell him, and he's not going to sit here and wait for Billy to try and let him down easy. He can't put himself through that agony. "Robin and Heather are going to New York after graduation."

There's a beat. "Shit, Steve," Billy finally says. "That's... you're gonna miss Buckley. Hell, _I'm_ gonna miss Buckley."

He squeezes his eyes shut. Distantly, he hears a car door slam outside, and he focuses on the sound for a split second. "No, it's..." He can do it, he's got to do it. For Billy's sake. "It's good for them, you know? Staying here is... you can't be queer in fucking _Hawkins_. I know you can't. So, like, it's good that they're gonna get to go somewhere and-and live their lives."

Billy nods, and his eyes search Steve's face like he's looking for a clue of some kind. "Yeah, I get that. California's a lot different than here, that's for damn sure."

Steve's heart is going to fall out of his body, aching all the while. This hurts, looking at Billy and trying to do this _hurts_. "I know," Steve chokes on the words a little. Has to repeat them so they come out clear. "I _know,_ I know it is. So, like." He stops, tries to gather a little bit of courage to say what he needs to say."

"Stevie, what's... what's going on?"

"It's okay that you wanna go, okay?" The words come out in an avalanche, tumbling out of him all at once. They always do with Billy. No one has _ever_ gotten him like Billy does, and losing that is going to be a special kind of devastating. "I-I understand, and I won't... you don't have to worry about me or anything, I won't try to stop you from going. But I can't do _this_ when you're gonna leave, you know? I can't keep..." Hoping, maybe, but the word fails Steve as his voice cracks. He thinks he might be crying, feels a tickle on his cheek that makes his hand wet when he swipes at it.

Billy's just staring at him, wide-eyed and stricken. "What? Pretty boy, _baby_ , I'm not leaving."

Wow. That hurts even more than having to start this conversation himself. Steve fumbles a hand at the desk, grabs the envelope and lifts it between them. "It's a, um. A letter of acceptance, right? To a school in San Francisco."

It takes Billy a minute to respond, and he still looks confused. "Yeah, but-"

Christ, Steve can't _take_ this. "So _don't lie to me_. It's-it's fucking _fine_ if you want to go, but don't... don't lie to me, don't stand here and pretend that you're _not_ leaving when you _are_!" 

Steve's voice gets louder as he keeps going. Through the still open window, he hears the slam of a car door somewhere down the street. He doesn't care, he _can't_ care, not when everything is slipping from him. He squeezes his eyes shut against the tears, tosses the acceptance letter back on his desk. 

If he looks at Billy, he'll cry. Big, ugly, gasping sobs. Steve can't help it, though, eyes snapping open when Billy pulls back from him completely. 

"So it's _fine_ if I go?" Billy's tone is flat, anger lacing through his words. "It's just _fine_ if I go to California alone? Without you? That's _fucking fine_ with you, Steve?"

He turns, goes to the dresser. Steve's heart seizes in his chest and a tear falls even as his eyes are wide, and he stutters out a breath. He's got to do this, has to do this so Billy knows it's okay to go. "I love you," he says, easy as ever. "Fuck, Billy, I _love_ you, and you're too good for this bullshit town and you're too good for _me_. You're gonna... you're gonna go do great things out there, and I don't wanna be fucking _holding you back_." 

The dresser drawer slams closed again. Steve drops his face, tries to stem the tears with the heels of his hands. 

Then there's a hand around his right wrist, tugging it away from his face, and a second one on his left arm. He's easy for Billy, even now. Steve's been easy for Billy this whole time, why should this end any different than it started? So he goes where Billy tugs him, sits down on the edge of his bed like Billy wants him to, wraps his arms around Billy's waist. Steve said it was fucking fin, and it's really _not fucking fine,_ but he said it and he'll pretend to mean it if he has to. Even if the way he clings might give him away.

"Stevie," Billy says, thin like he's praying for patience. 

"I don't wanna end up like my parents," Steve forces out. He shuts his eyes again, resists the urge to bury his face in Billy's shirt. It works for all of a second until Billy gets a hand in his hair and drags him in. The rest of his confession is muffled in the soft fabric of Billy's sleep shirt. "I can't... If you cheated on me, I'd wanna _die,_ Billy. It'd be w-worse if you resented me. I'm _dead weight_ , you're gonna do great things while my dumbass rots in a minimum wage job, and you're gonna think I'm -"

"Stop." Billy's hand is still gentle as it tugs Steve's face back out of his shirt. His other hand grabs the hem of said shirt, covers his thumb with it, and then wipes at Steve's eyes and face. When he finishes, he says, "Okay, you're gonna listen to me. Got it, pretty boy? Take a deep breath and just... listen to me."

Steve nods, sucks in a shaky breath and then another.

"We aren't gonna end up like your parents. Remember? I'm not gonna be my dad, and you're not gonna be yours." In the soft light of the desk lamp and the one on the nightstand, it looks like Billy's eyes are wet too. "You're not gonna be your mom, and I'm not gonna be mine. We're gonna be better than _all of them_ , and we're gonna be better to- _fucking_ -gether."

Steve nods, closes his eyes again in an effort not to cry when Billy's already wiped his face. He doesn't want to have to use the uniform shirt he's still wearing, not when he's been working in it for the last few hours. Billy starts to pull away, out of Steve's panicked grasp, and Steve sucks in a breath as he opens his eyes, plea for Billy to give him just one more moment on the tip of his tongue.

Then Billy's back, settling onto the bed with his knees straddling Steve's lap. "Dropped the fucking... on the floor," he mutters, like that's supposed to mean something. He hooks a pair of fingers under Steve's chin. Steve blinks through blurry eyes and finds that Billy's cheeks are red. "Okay, this was supposed to be a surprise tomorrow, or like... after we fucked for a couple hours, but tonight took a _left fucking turn,_ so." He chews his lip for a second, and then his eyes crinkle at the corner. "Christ, okay. Here."

He shoves something at Steve's chest, small and hard. When Steve reluctantly unhooks an arm from around Billy to grab whatever it is, his fingers close over something small and cool. Round. With a hole in the middle, like a...

Like a ring.

Steve can't speak as he stares down at the silver and gold, three little diamonds inlaid into the top, one right after the other. It's simple, masculine. Expensive.

The sound of Billy clearing his throat. "You're... Stevie, you make me a better man. You make me _want_ to be a better man. I don't wanna leave Hawkins if you're not gonna be with me every step of the way." And Steve was right, Billy's eyes are wet like he's gonna start crying too. God, wouldn't that be a picture - both of them? "I'll tell the colleges to all fuck off if you wanna stay here. Max'll kill me with her bare hands if I ever cheat on you. Hell, I'll throw myself off a roof if I ever even _think_ about it, you're... fuck, Stevie, _I love you_ , and I'll never fucking forgive myself if I ever let you get away." 

He says it all like a statement. But he's watching Steve like he's waiting for an answer - suspended and taut. 

Steve swallows, looks down at the ring again. Carefully, slowly, he puts it on the appropriate finger of his left hand. It fits perfectly, because of course it does. 

"That's, uh. White gold and... regular fucking gold, I guess," Billy says, still watching Steve. 

Steve's eyes blur again, but this time he smiles. He manages a quick, breathless, " _Yes_ , fuck, of course."

The breath that Billy blows out is explosive, full of relief, and his arms come around Steve's neck to drag him close again. "It was supposed to be a surprise," he finally says into Steve's hair. "I can't believe you thought I was gonna _leave_ without you."

"Yeah, well." Some things, Steve's learned, are easier to say when he doesn't actually have to look at Billy, when the words are mostly hidden and barely heard thanks to Billy's shoulder or his shirt. "You're the only one who's ever stayed, so like. You leaving without me just made sense."

"Christ, Stevie." Billy kisses the side of Steve's forehead, ducks down to kiss at his cheek, too. "Listen, your dad is a fucking piece of-"

He stops when the bedroom door creaks. There's no pounding movement, though, so Steve fights the initial urge to jump up and go for his bat, lifts his head and looks over in unison with Billy.

"So," his mother says, slowly. Her eyes are wide in surprise, flitting between Billy and Steve, and her suitcase is laying sideways on the floor behind her. She's still wearing her coat and hat. "I... think there's some champagne downstairs? If you, um. Would like to celebrate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger!


	9. will it be there when I wake?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a warm night in May, things finally come to a head with Neil Hargrove.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please take a look at the tags added for this chapter, and please note that this is a pretty heavy, intense chapter. 
> 
> [b]Billy actually discusses the violence in the fic, but it is not depicted.[/b] It is still very intense. 

_May 1986_

Steve's got a week until graduation.

He's actually graduating this time, too. He finished with better grades than he's had in a long time, though still not a stellar GPA. High enough he could get into a community college if he wanted to, now. Steve's not sure _what_ he wants to do, yet. He's kind of thinking that he wants to lay on a beach and hold Billy's hand for a couple of weeks before he makes any big decisions like that.

He had dinner with his mother earlier, which despite happening more often than not these days, is still pretty strange. Definitely more enjoyable, now that there's water or Diet Coke in her glass instead of alcohol. Even better because Steve's dad isn't there. Billy's been coming for dinner sometimes, too. He's still a little stiff around Steve's mom, because he's still mad about a lot of the shit that she did and didn't do when Steve was younger. To be honest, Steve's still kind of mad about that shit too, but he likes that his mother is at least _trying_. And like, he's kind of living proof that people can change. Or something, whatever.

Steve's got nothing to do this close to graduation except hang out with his friends and Billy. Final grades are in, so he showed up for his last day today, and that's it, he's done being in high school. He's supposed to be getting ready for a pre-graduation party at someone's house. Steve doesn't think he really wants to go. He kind of wants to just have his own little celebration at home, once Billy shows up.

He's trying not to, like, worry because Billy's half an hour late. There's a ring on Steve's finger and the feather necklace under his shirt. Billy's told him in no uncertain terms that the only way he'd be leaving without Steve would be in a body bag (and Steve had smacked him in the arm for being so morbid). Sometimes Billy gets assigned one last chore before he can make it out of his house and to Steve's. Sometimes his Camaro keys get confiscated, so he's gotta walk. And sometimes the lock on the outside of his door gets thrown, and then Billy's gotta climb out his bedroom window, and he walks with whatever injuries he's got and climbs through Steve's window instead.

But Billy's always okay, one way or another. 

And they leave for Cali two days after graduation.

So Steve takes a deep breath, and tells himself that Billy's okay, he's just late, and that Billy didn't leave him behind. He tries to read one of the books that Billy's read to him - one of the easier ones, one that he can work his way through slowly with no judgment now that he's comfortable - but he can't stop glancing at the open window. 

For all intents and purposes, it's a clear, normal evening outside. There's a warm spring breeze that blows the curtains that aren't tied back, and Steve can see the tree outside that Billy always uses to climb up. If Steve looks outside (which he's done a couple of times now), he would see nothing out of the ordinary. It's only a half hour past eight pm - or, actually, a quarter until nine. 

It's just that Steve's got this terrible feeling he can't shake. 

Not anxiety. Or, well, not _just_ anxiety. An instinct, maybe. A sensation in his gut that's telling him something is wrong.

It only takes ten minutes for Billy to prove Steve's instincts correct, when catapults himself through the window, covered in blood with his shirt slashed open.

* * *

Steve's hands are shaking. 

Or, well. They _were_ until his mother gripped one and Billy gripped the other. It's just Hopper in the house now, since the paramedics patched Billy up in the ambulance when he refused to go to the hospital. Steve refused the hospital trip, too, just sat and clenched his hands tight in his lap while he sat in the open doors and a nice guy with gloves bandaged his bleeding cheek and wrapped his wrist for him. That was, like, what? Twenty minutes ago? Three hours? Steve's not sure at all.

He can pick up the sound of voices, even if he can't really focus on anyone but Billy's. He knows his mother spoke a little bit. He's heard Hop asking questions that Steve couldn't recall if you paid him. 

"I heard Susan scream, and like... he hit Susan a lot, but she never really _screamed_ like that, so I dropped Max out of her window, and told her to run to... fuck. Anyone, I guess. I just told her to run. Then I ran to help Susan," Billy says, and then Hop asks another question. Steve kind of tunes out of everything, then, hears something about Billy running to his house, and then. Nothing really. White noise.

He focuses instead on what he _can_ handle. Billy's hand is steady in his, grip firm and tight, just like it always is when he's holding Steve because shit's real fuckin' scary. His mother's is tight, too, loosening occasionally like she just remembered he's injured, but Steve thinks that it's because _she's_ scared, not necessarily that she knows he needs it. It's nice, nonetheless. 

Actually, 'nice' probably isn't the right word for the situation. 

After all, the front door is hanging off of its hinge a little, and one of the windows is shattered. Steve's wrist is definitely sprained, but the idea of going to the hospital _alone_ wasn't something he could face. He's just glad its the one his mother was holding onto, not Billy. Especially not now, not when he's sure there could be monsters, both human and inter-dimensional, lurking around every corner.

'Nice' is kind of the opposite of this kind of shitstorm.

"Stevie." 

Steve turns his head automatically, the way he always does when Billy says his name like that. This time it sounds like Billy's said it a few times already, or that Hop has. Maybe even his mother? There's a little chunk of time slipping away from him again.

He kind of feels like he's floating beyond everything. It's a lot like when he'd come home or finally lay down after anything involving the Upside-Down, like his mind has just hit some kind of wall and catapulted itself _beyond_ panic into just plain "out of it." Billy looks worried, maybe scared out of his own skin. Not like the Mind-Flayer, different reasons now. He's got a nasty bruise on his cheek, came in with it when he crashed through Steve's window. There are bruises on his neck, and Steve suddenly remembers that night in November, when Billy came home to him. 

"Stevie," Billy says again, a little quieter. He brings his other hand up to Steve's face to look at him closer, and it's easy to go where Billy's fingers direct him. It's the bandaged one, Steve notices, with all the cuts from wrenching the knife out of Neil Hargrove's hand. "Hey, pretty boy, you okay?"

"Did he get hit in the head?" Hop asks. "Did the ambulance check him for a concussion?"

Billy's the one who responds, before Steve can even consider speaking. There was a pause he was supposed to fill, maybe. Steve must have missed it. "No, he didn't - it's not a concussion, just. Just give us a second, Hop."

Steve doesn't even think before he's letting go of his mother's hand. It's easy to go where Billy leads him, especially when Billy's gets an arm around his waist and guides him up the stairs. The bedroom's a mess, mud tracked across the carpet and the covers thrown on the floor, casualties of the chaos just before the storm. Billy sits him on the edge of the bed carefully, like he's done so many times before, and gets his boots off. He uses mostly his left hand, the one that had been wrapped around Steve's, because...

Because his right is covered in bandages.

From getting the knife away from his own father. 

The front door and a window are both broken, his wrist hurts like a bitch, and Steve's got a cut just under his eye from barely dodging what could have been a _really bad_ injury from a _knife_ that fucking _Neil Hargrove_ tried to stab him with. And like, it's just a tiny cut, probably won't even scar, unlike the scars on Billy's chest and from the Mind-Flayer, and now Billy's got the slash on his shoulder that's taped down with some heavy gauze that will be just another reminder of what a shit person his _own fucking father_ is. 

"Hey, you gotta breathe, Steve. _Christ._ " Billy manhandles Steve back onto the bed, throws one leg over Steve's and wraps his arms around him. His hand is big and heavy when it finds the back of Steve's head, pushes it down so that Steve's face is buried in his shoulder. 

Then he holds it there, steady and strong. Like the rise and fall of Billy's chest pressed against Steve's own, like the pulse in Billy's neck under Steve's cheek. This is how Billy holds him when Steve wakes up from a horrible nightmare. It's also how Billy holds him when _Billy_ wakes up from a terrible nightmare. 

"I'm _angry_ ," Steve chokes out against Billy's shoulder. "I'm angry, and I'm scared, and I'm _so fucking sick_ of being scared!" He ends up screaming the last part, even though the words come out muffled into the fabric of Billy's shirt and the skin of his shoulder.

Sometimes Steve doesn't realize that he's spiraling into the kind of panic attack that makes him lose time and obsess. It happens a lot less now, actually, because he's gotten better at recognizing and dealing with the shit that usually sets him off. This, though? This whole knife-wielding-father-of-his-boyfriend-breaking-down-the-door thing? This wasn't anywhere on his radar. This is truly and completely out of a left field. No, not even left field. Somewhere _beyond_ left field. Like... so far beyond left field it might as well have come from Antarctica. 

"Yeah, Stevie," Billy replies above Steve's head. He sounds _exhausted_ , stretched-thin and worn-out in the way he really only lets Steve (and sometimes Max) see. "I know you are. Me fuckin' too."

Steve's breathing is starting to calm. Horrible things that _could_ have happened have stopped flashing in his mind as much. He hadn't even realized how much air he hadn't been getting until now, when it's evening out and Steve feels a little tiny bit of the tight ball in his chest ease. Billy's hand is petting his hair now instead of holding him down, soothing and rhythmic. 

"How you doin'?" Billy asks after a moment. His voice sounds hoarse, Steve notices. From the yelling he did, maybe.

His hold on Steve loosens, and after a moment, Steve draws back a little. Just so that he can shift onto an actual pillow and look at Billy's face. Which... 

Holy fuck. Steve's an _asshole_.

"How am I doing? How are _you_ doing?" Steve wiggles a hand up, thumbs at the little trickle of wet that's made it down Billy's cheek. It's mixed with a smudge of dirt and a little blood from the scratch on his cheek. They're both from scrambling his way up the tree as quickly as possible, or maybe from running through town at a dead sprint to try and beat Neil Hargrove to the Harrington house.

But Billy turns his head and kisses at Steve's palm, moves them so that Steve's head is pillowed on Billy's arm and Billy's other hand is curled around Steve's waist. "I'm just glad it's over," he says, closes his eyes for a second like he could fall asleep right here, like it's any other night. "Real fuckin' glad no one got hurt." 

"No one got... you got _stabbed_ ," Steve replies incredulously. 

"I think 'stabbed' is a little heavy-handed."

"A knife literally penetrated your skin. You got stabbed."

Billy huffs in faux-annoyance, but his closed eyes are starting to crinkle around the edges. "Can we agree on 'grazed?'"

"No." Despite himself, Steve's starting to smile a little too. He can't help it, he's not exactly great at appropriate fear responses, and Billy knows him well enough to cheer Steve up quickly. As much as Steve _can_ be cheered up right now, anyway. "I will settle for 'sliced.'" 

He moves again, drops his gaze to where he can see the gauze and bandages, even that little smile falling from his face. Billy doesn't say anything as Steve slips his hand under the fabric of his button down, skips over the scars on blatant display thanks to the buttons of his shirt getting ripped off in the struggle. The skin around the gauze is dry and clean, pulled taut by the medical tape. He gently traces two fingertips along the square edge.

Billy could have died. Again. Protecting them all, just like last time. 

He unlocks his own teeth from the corner of his bottom lip, but he can't tear his eyes away. "You got hurt."

"Stevie." The hand that was on Steve's waist curls around his wrist instead, drags it out of Billy's shirt. Billy twists their fingers together. "I'm alive, you're alive. Max is okay, and Susan's going to _be_ okay, so Max can still have a fuckin' _mom_. Hell, even if I'm not crazy about her, _you_ still have a mom."

"What... what fucking _happened_?" Steve asks. "It was you in our window just like always, and then we were running downstairs because your dad was trying to climb through the fucking _living room window_. With a _knife_."

The sigh that Billy blows out is long and filled with... Steve doesn't know. A lot of something bone-deep, something emotional, like the sigh itself is the burden he's been carrying for so long. "I... fuck, baby, I'm not even sure. He was drunk, Susan was screaming on the floor..." 

He's not looking at Steve now, instead somewhere over Steve's shoulder. Some of what he's saying is ringing a bell, like Steve actually heard it when Billy was talking to Hopper or something. Steve wants to stop him, puts his palm on Billy's face, but it's like Billy doesn't even hear him. Like the dam has broken and he's _got_ to talk about it, a waterfall of words and hurt that pours from him.

"I had... fuck, I had a _bad fuckin' feeling_ about that fight when it started. So I went into Max's room and locked the door, figured I'd hide her or run with her if Dad got it in his mind to come after her - she's been getting _mouthy_ , you know? Speakin' up for herself and... and for _me_ , Stevie, and he's got a real short temper." 

Billy's hand has let go of Steve's, curls in his shirt instead. Steve kind of thinks that Billy _needs_ to get this out, now, just strokes Billy's messy hair behind his ear and drags his palm down his cheek over and over again.

"Then Susan started screaming." There's another tear coming out of his eye, starting to trickle across his face, down the bridge of his nose. "So I helped Max get out of the window and told her to run to the Byers 'cause they were closer. I think... I think I broke the lock on the door, but it was one of those flimsy-ass ones anyway, and when I got downstairs he..." He stops, trails off, and Steve takes the moment to wipe at the wet on his face. That's what seems to bring Billy back, at least a little - his eyes refocus on Steve, and he leans into Steve's touch. "I told Hop. I don't know if you heard me."

"I was pretty out of it," Steve confesses softly. "But you don't - babe, you don't _have_ to tell me, okay? You can just... you've already hashed it out, and you're right, it's _over_ , and-"

But Billy interrupts with, "He had a gun." 

Steve stops breathing for a second, forces himself to exhale and inhale before he starts descending into panic again. They can't both break down, not now. Sometimes Billy's gotta be strong for him, and sometimes Steve's gotta be strong for Billy. Sometimes they gotta be strong for each other, but in this moment, Steve thinks that Billy needs a rock more than he does. 

He curls his fingers around Billy's again, holds on tight. Just like Billy holds tight to him.

"In his hand, Steve, he _had a gun_. It was... fuckin' _pointed_ right at Susan. But Dad... Dad was drunk, right? So I just rushed him, and then we were on the floor, and I threw the gun _somewhere_ and told Susan to run. She yelled about Max, and I told her she was already gone and to just... _run_. So she did. Then he had a fucking kitchen knife, was yelling about some fuckin' _rumor_ he heard about you and me, and..." Billy shakes his head, gives Steve a humorless smile. "Well, you know the rest."

Steve can't work words for a moment. When he does, they come out choked. "You're so..." he tries. The end gets lost, so he tries again. "You saved five people tonight, including yourself. Technically six, since your dad's in a jail cell and not, like, dead."

"I don't know how he drove here without wrecking, he was _drunk_ ," Billy admits. "I'm just... I'm so glad it's over. I'm glad it's fuckin' _over_."

There's something there, Steve thinks, that speaks to Billy's relief at... everything, maybe. Not just tonight, but the grief and hurt built up over a lifetime. And maybe it's not over completely - there are restraining orders to file and divorce proceedings and probably a criminal trial or something, Steve's not a fuckin' lawyer - but there's a deep relief in _Steve_ that Billy doesn't have to ever show up with a black eye or a split lip after tonight, that they're going to be so far away that Neil will never be able to touch either of them again, that maybe the square of gauze is the final scar that Billy will ever get at the hands of a monster. 

It's a relief to Steve, and he can _see_ the exhausted relief in Billy. There's a part of him that wonders if the Billy from September would be embarrassed or ashamed, if he even would have fought back against the knife back then. He's so _fiercely_ glad he doesn't have to know, really. He's glad that scenario will stay firmly in another universe that Steve never, ever has to touch. 

"Well, not over just yet," Billy says with another sigh. "We still gotta talk to Hop. You think you can do it, now?" 

Yeah, Steve thinks he can do it. But he's not quite _ready_ for it. He doesn't want to let go of Billy's hand yet, doesn't want to break this quiet moment of safety and peace and comfort. He's not crying anymore, sure, and neither is is Billy, but Steve's heart is still aching in his chest. 

"Just... just a little longer," Steve says, even though his voice comes out steady, and he can breathe. "A couple more minutes. Please." It's not a need anymore, not really. But it's a _want._

"Long as you want, Stevie," Billy replies in a thick voice. "Forever."

Hop can wait a couple of minutes. The world and everything in it can wait, too.


	10. epilogue - move out west where we can do this right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An epilogue and a happy ending.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this has been a ride! Never did I expect that my little idea of Billy climbing through Steve's window would take off like it did, but here we are, ten chapters later. Thanks so much for reading, and kudos-ing, and commenting - this ended up being a very personal fic for me, and I'm incredibly happy with how it turned out. I appreciate you guys!
> 
> I was thinking about doing an interlude scene for this fic, where Billy, Steve, and Steve's mom have an awkwardly supportive talk after the end of Chapter 8. I actually have a few different interlude and timestamp ideas, so if I were to do them, I would probably shove them all into one work and make a little series page and y'all could read them there. If that's something you guys would be interested in!

_July 1986_

It's been two weeks, and they're still not done unpacking. 

It would help if they could stop feeling so damn excited about the whole thing. Steve can't control himself, though. Billy just looks a certain _way_ in the golden sun of California, carefree and open all the time instead of just in little pockets, hidden away in Steve's room. So yeah, they keep ditching unpacking to go to the beach, or make out on the kitchen floor when they're supposed to be unwrapping dishes, or dance to the Fleetwood Mac CD that Billy got Steve for Christmas all those months ago. 

There's something incredible about this little apartment that's all theirs, about a kitchen that they can cook in and a bedroom that neither of them grew up in. Even now, when the heat of the afternoon sun and the physical movement of trying to put together Billy's bookshelf has Steve sweating through the shirt with the cut-off sleeves that was actually Billy's to begin with. The box with the books in it is over by the couch they had to carry up the stairs themselves, and was, in Steve's opinion, heavier than the couch. 

Which was why he made Billy carry it.

The trade-off had been that Steve would be the one to put the bookshelf together, but he's _pretty sure_ it's either missing a screw or he's lost one somehow. Billy's in the bedroom, supposedly unpacking and organizing all of his jewelry and music, but Steve hasn't actually heard anything playing yet, so he's not sure that _that's_ actually happening.

Steve's got a hunch about what his boyfriend is _actually_ doing. So he gives up on the bookshelf and lays the screwdriver down on the stupid paper with all the diagrams, and pads on bare feet across the carpet. He goes through the living room, past the bathroom, past the "guest room" that Billy has promised to let Max crash in whenever she wants, provided that Susan knows where she is, and into their bedroom. 

Their bedroom is a strange mix of new and old. The bed's not even the same, but it's big and comfortable. The carpet is a different color, even if they _did_ bring the mimosa-stained rug with them. There's a new desk in the corner with the desk lamp from Hawkins, new nightstands holding stacks of dog-eared books with broken spines. Steve has an appointment next week for some kind of dyslexia testing that Billy saw on a flier, and Billy's classes all start at the end of August. 

The curtains aren't up yet, but the window in the bedroom is open.

Steve smiles and climbs through, drops onto the metal fire escape next to Billy. "Hey, Stevie," Billy says, leaning over to kiss Steve's cheek as the cigarette burns in his hand. 

It's oppressively hot outside, but the actual fire escape is in the shade of the building right now, so it doesn't burn Steve's skin. Their legs hang over the edge, and Steve loops his arm around the railing pole on the right, nudging Billy with his left.

"This is nice," Steve sighs out for the hundredth time in two weeks. He means it, though, in a way that he can't really articulate - the frigid wind of winter can't reach him here, he thinks. Or maybe it can, but not like it could in Hawkins. The bat under the bed is a regular baseball bat instead of the one with the nails in it, and Steve doesn't jump at the shadows when the lights of the city shine through the window. 

Billy's not looking at the city, though, when he nudges Steve back. "Yeah, it is."

"Gonna miss the kids, though," Steve admits, again for the hundredth time in two weeks. He hears Billy start, and cuts him off with, "I know, I know, we're flying back in like a month for the court shit, but that's not like... I don't know, Will calling us in the middle of the night because he's got a crazy question about liking guys."

"We have so much hush money," Billy says, grinning. "So much. You can literally fly back to fucking Hawkins anytime you want. Hell, the kids can _literally_ fly out to California anytime _they_ want. Personally, I think Cali's more fun." This time, he's the one who cuts Steve off. "We're _already_ doing Christmas in New York, _and_ Robin's called you every day since the phone was turned on."

It's a rehash of a conversation. Reassurance for Steve, maybe for Billy too. It's got the both of them smiling, and Steve feels like he's been smiling for his whole life, like nothing bad has ever happened to either of them. 

The scar on Billy's shoulder is healing, just like the ones on his chest did. Steve feels like he can breathe for the first time in... a long time. There's a ring on Steve's finger, and a feather hanging from Billy's ear. They've got plans, and goals, and ideas, and all of them are wrapped up in having each other in their lives for the long-term. They're not gonna be their parents, they're gonna be Billy and Steve, out in Cali and queer and free.

Steve doesn't deserve this, he thinks sometimes. But he's real fucking glad he got it, and _Billy_ believes that Steve deserves this. Steve's on his way to believing it, maybe, gets a little closer every day. 

"You're getting that sappy look in your eye." Billy's stubbed out his cigarette on the ashtray he brought out with him, says it like he doesn't have 'that sappy look' on his _face_. 

Usually, Steve responds to that particular line with a kiss or a shove or something playful. But today, he feels... good. Really good. "I'm happy," is what ends up coming out, soft and a little shy, glances down at the Hawkins High logo on Billy's shirt after he says it. 

It takes Billy a second to reply, and when Steve looks back up, his eyes have gone all gentle and crinkled like they do. Billy looks a certain way in the California sun, Steve thinks again. Carefree and _in love_ , all out in the open instead of behind the closed and locked bedroom door in Steve's childhood house. 

"Yeah," Billy finally says. "Me too, pretty boy. I'm happy too." 

The sigh that Steve gives is content instead of stressed out. And it's not _gone_ , he knows, feels the anxiety crop up just like it probably always will. Billy still shutters off sometimes and doesn't want to be touched, and they still have nightmares. None of that will go away just because they left Hawkins behind, but this apartment and the beach and Cali - all of it feels like a beginning. Like maybe here, they'll have the _chance_ to let it all go, somewhere down the line. A place where they can just... be who they are instead of who their parents and the fucking _government_ want them to be.

Billy breaks the silence a few minutes later. "So, how's unpacking going?" 

"I was thinking we should go buy a bookshelf," Steve says, nonchalant. "Made by someone who actually has, like... one fucking clue about how to _build_ a bookshelf." 

"I can build a bookshelf," Billy says, grinning wide with laughter he's working very hard to suppress.

"Yeah, but I _can't_ , so I'm gonna buy you a bookshelf. Sound cool? Great."

It's when Steve's back through the window, halfway through putting people-appropriate clothing on, that he realizes Billy still hasn't come off of the fire escape. When he looks over, Billy's watching him with a soft expression and a little smile on his face, barefoot instead of wearing boots, all his walls down.

"Hey," Steve calls, and Billy's gaze up his body. "You should come inside."

And Billy does. 


End file.
